A Single Flight of Stairs
by EvergreenDreamweaver
Summary: Detectives Ellison and Sandburg have been roommates for five years now. They're best friends as well as work partners. So why are they suddenly unable to get along any more? Will too much enforced togetherness finally ruin their friendship?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Originally written in 2009. Don't expect today's technology.

Note: Although most of the stories by me follow each other in a story arc of sorts, this one and "Feline Persuasion" would only be taking place if "Remodel and Rebuild" had not happened. Alternate realities, if you wish.

Thank you very much, Sarai and iloveagoodstory for your reviews, Favorites and Follows.

 **A Single Flight of Stairs**

Part 1

By EvergreenDreamweaver

 _ **BANG!**_

Jim Ellison flinched away from the concussive thunder of a door being slammed full-force. He half-expected to see the glass panes shatter under the impact, but the French door remained intact. He could hear Blair fling himself onto his bed, muttering curses in several different languages. The furious tirade subsided as Sandburg succumbed to exhaustion, however, and eventually there was no sound coming from his room save that of deep breathing.

Feeling numb, Ellison sat on the couch and rested his head in his hands, trying to figure out how and where and when things between himself and his partner had deteriorated so quickly.

###

It was one of _those_ months – cases coming so thick and fast they could barely keep up with them with the whole division running flat out. To make matters worse, Henri Brown was on leave, recuperating from an on-the-job injury…and then their captain, Simon Banks himself had the temerity to come down with a bronchial infection. Joel Taggart was a capable stand-in, but with him doing Banks' work, the rest of the division was left even more short-handed. All the detectives were working long hours; Ellison and Sandburg, blessed with an extraordinary solve rate and cursed with an inability to say 'no' to additional cases, ended up with more and more work piled on their capable – but tiring – shoulders.

Sandburg had tried his best to keep things upbeat, at least when they were on duty, and to find ways to relieve stress when off, but it became more and more difficult the longer the situation continued. Eventually it affected both their work situation and their home life.

Ellison, as was his long-standing habit, dealt with things by retreating into his 'military' mode: lock down all the inessentials and cope with the essentials in the most grim, stoic and super-efficient manner he could effect. Partnering with Sandburg had softened his edges, but in times of crisis he tended to regress. Unfortunately, he didn't leave the attitude at work; it went home with him and found a convenient target in his roommate's transgressions.

At best, Jim's attitude was snarky; at worst his cold sarcasm and faultfinding were a bitter, continuous running monologue. It had been literally years since they'd bothered using color-coded Tupperware, but now Ellison insisted on renewing the practice, demanding that Blair use what had been deemed 'his' containers for his leftovers. When Blair protested, Jim curtly cut him short, declaring the subject closed. The next issues to be raised were predictable: hair in the shower drain, the bathroom sink dotted with shaving cream and beard stubble, books and magazines and miscellaneous clutter scattered about the living room rather than being neatly put away according to the Law of Ellison. The final straw had been this evening when they arrived home from work to discover that neither of them had remembered – or more accurately, had time – to buy any groceries, and the fridge was pretty well bare; not even leftovers to be had. Jim had exploded, accusing Blair of carelessly neglecting his responsibilities; Blair had countered with the sharp retort that it wasn't _his_ sole responsibility, and Jim was equally to blame. The argument had escalated until Blair had cussed him out roundly, stormed into his room and slammed the door behind him.

###

Jim sighed and knuckled his eyes wearily. If he'd only stopped after the Tupperware demands, days ago, things might not have gone this far. If only he hadn't started ridiculing and taunting his partner in the bullpen, where not only Blair's feelings were hurt, but also his professional pride. If only he'd managed more than four hours of sleep over the past few nights. If only their cases would break open… He was in the wrong tonight and he knew it. It _was_ equally his fault that there was nothing for dinner, and if the truth were known, it wasn't all that big a deal – it wouldn't have been that much a problem to either go out for dinner or to call for pizza or Chinese or some other form of take-out; they'd done it often enough. They were tired, true, but they could have managed. But instead, they had both lashed out.

 _I'm sorry, Chief…I had no right to go off at you like that…_

He was too deep in remorseful reminiscence to notice that Sandburg's breathing had changed or to hear the soft sounds of clothing and blankets rustling as a wakeful Blair moved restlessly on his bed. And – not being psychic, merely sense-intensive – Jim had no idea that his unhappy thoughts were being paralleled by his roommate's.

###

Blair turned onto his back and tried to settle himself more comfortably, staring up at the barely-visible ceiling of his darkened room. He hadn't turned on any lights when he entered, and was in no mood to do it now. He was still angry and upset, but his current overwhelming emotion was sadness. Things were so bad between himself and Jim right now, and instead of blowing over and getting better as time went on, they seemed to be becoming worse. _I've tried…I really have…_

He'd yielded about the Tupperware, albeit reluctantly, hoping that this would pacify his contentious Sentinel. He'd made a conscientious attempt to be tidier in the bathroom, after Jim had complained and snarked and bitched. He'd made an effort to fix things Jim liked, on the rare occasions they had dinner at home, and after another barrage of complaints he'd endeavored to find the time to corral some of his scattered belongings. After all, he'd told himself, the job stress was no doubt playing havoc with Jim's heightened senses; as his Guide, Blair needed to be more understanding. But the constant sniping was wearing him down. After all, _he_ was under the same stresses as Jim. They shared their job, they shared their home, they shared their off-times. Blair found himself guiltily wishing, in his innermost, secret heart-of-hearts, for a tiny vacation…a vacation _away_ from the precinct and its denizens – and even away from Jim!

It wasn't that he didn't like being a cop, or didn't want to partner Jim anymore, or didn't want to be his roommate, or was tired of being Guide to a Sentinel. He loved Jim dearly; they were best friends, and he knew the affection was returned 100 percent; he enjoyed his job – dead bodies notwithstanding – and felt that he was doing something really important with his life. As for the Sentinel aspect, he was still, after over five years, awed and enthralled with what Jim could do using his heightened senses, and his own ability to help; he knew he'd never tire of that. And if he was totally, unequivocally honest, he had to admit that all the blame for this latest blowup shouldn't rest on Jim. He was at fault as well. After all this time together, he knew all of Jim's buttons, and how to push each one if he felt like being annoying. And perversely, he _had_ felt like being annoying – as annoying as he could. Jim had hurt his feelings by his actions and words at work, even more than his behavior at home, and Blair had taken the opportunity to get a little of his own back tonight. _Payback's a bitch, isn't it, Jim..?_ He wasn't being either kind or fair – but then, neither was Jim.

 _We're together 24/7 – week in and week out. It's just too much! Married couples aren't together this much! And why am_ _I_ _the one who has to make all the concessions, anyway?_

Blair sighed again, drearily. He didn't know the answer to the question, and he didn't know the solution to the problem. He just knew that right now he was furious with Jim, and he suspected the feeling was mutual!

He raised his head from the pillow and listened intently, but could hear nothing from the living room. Jim hadn't turned on the television – a favorite form of escape from an uncomfortable situation – and Blair hadn't heard the front door open or close, so he didn't think that Jim had gone out. He briefly considered getting up to check, just in case Jim had zoned…and then shook his head, laid back down and closed his eyes. It was highly unlikely that the Sentinel had zoned; his control was excellent now, at least most of the time. Best to leave things alone tonight; tempers were still too high for conversation. Not that there was any guarantee that things would be better in the morning…

Blair fell asleep considering unlikely options for a vacation alone.

###

Jim had brooded a long time, but finally roused himself enough to listen for Blair's breathing and heartbeat – which indicated that the younger man was sound asleep; then he checked the locks, turned out the lights and went upstairs. Sleep, however, was a long time coming. Instead of dropping off, he lay in bed and stared at the skylight, still trying to figure out some way to smooth things over with Blair – and looking for a long-term solution as well.

They were too much in each others' hair right now, that was certain. When Blair had been at Rainier, his schedule there versus Jim's police work schedule made for frequent breaks. Back then, the problem had been managing _enough_ time together, not too much. Now that they were partnered detectives, there was ordinarily enough 'give' in the work schedule that it wasn't a problem; they had plenty of leisure time to do things on their own, as well as doing things together, and occasionally their work had them acting separately…but lately that hadn't been feasible.

Maybe, once work permitted, he should take off for a few days, give Blair some space, give himself some space and time alone…? _Uh, no_. No, no, _no_. The last time he'd tried 'taking off' for some alone time, a suspicious, fish-envious Simon and a worried, hurt Blair had followed him. The resultant disastrous events in Clayton Falls had taught them all some hard lessons. He could still remember his absolute terror when he thought that Blair was dying of a mutant strain of Ebola virus, along with the knowledge that it was all his fault for causing his Guide to be in Clayton Falls in the first place.

So…that idea was out, but was there a way _Sandburg_ could get away for a little while? After the last week or so and their borderline-vicious brouhaha tonight, it had to be on his mind. In fact, Jim wouldn't be surprised to see his roommate reading the 'Apartment for Rent' ads in tomorrow morning's _Cascade Times_. Devastated, but not surprised.

He fell asleep at last, but without coming to any satisfactory conclusions.

###

Blair woke the next morning to the sound of the shower running, and the fragrance of freshly-brewing coffee. He sat up and surveyed himself with distaste; nothing like having slept in your clothes, without washing or brushing your teeth, to feel utterly grungy. He rubbed his face tiredly. It felt sticky and crusted in spots…as if he'd cried in his sleep and left tear-tracks. Well, maybe he had. He'd certainly come close to it while awake.

The shower shut off and after a few minutes he heard Jim walk down the hallway and ascend the stairs. Knowing the Sentinel would be busy getting dressed for a bit, Blair quietly opened his door and slipped into the bathroom to take a quick shower.

Mindful of keeping the relative peace, Sandburg was meticulous about tidying up the bathroom, being careful to use the spray bottle of Shower Fresh, and wiping out the sink after he'd shaved and brushed his teeth, depositing the hand towel in the laundry hamper and hanging up a clean one. At last he concluded that he was purposely dawdling to avoid Jim. He squared his shoulders, opened the door and went to his bedroom to dress.

When he finally emerged, he was immediately struck by the empty feel of the apartment. There was no sign of Jim downstairs, and he heard nothing from the loft bedroom. Ellison's jacket and holster were gone from their usual places. All evidence pointed to Jim having departed without him.

"Why, that dirty rat! How dare he just go off and leave?" For a moment, Blair was enraged – and then he noticed the note propped up against the coffee maker. Still incensed, he snatched it up and began to read.

 _ **Sorry, Chief – Meant to have breakfast with you, but duty – or rather, Joel – called while you were in the shower. We've got another DB – sounds like a gangland execution, from what he said.**_

 _ **Here's the address: 1085 Puget Sound Lp.**_

 _ **Maybe we can go out to breakfast after – my treat. Promise we'll work on…things.**_

 _ **J.**_

Blair read the brief missive through once, then again. Long versed in Jim-speak, he could read between the lines and get a wealth of information from what the Sentinel had written and where the message had been placed.

 _ **Sorry, Chief . Meant to have breakfast with you, but duty – or rather, Joel – called while you were in the shower.**_

Translation: Addressing him as 'Chief' said _We're still friends, right?_ The rest? _I know we need to connect. I didn't want to spoil your morning by interrupting your shower._

 _ **We've got another DB – sounds like a gangland execution, from what Joel said. Here's the address: 1085 Puget Sound Lp.**_

Translation: _I want you to come; this sounds nasty and I need you. ASAP, please._

 _ **Maybe we can go out to breakfast after – my treat. Promise we'll work on…things.**_

Translation: _I'm sorry for running out on you – let me make up for it. I'm sorry about last night – hope we can straighten things out._

Although the idea of having a nice hearty breakfast after working a murder scene made Sandburg's stomach do lazy flips, he appreciated the thought and the gesture all the same.

The location of the note indicated that he should grab a cup of coffee before he left. Blair noticed that the pot was untouched; Jim hadn't taken any with him. It probably hadn't finished brewing before he had to go – and Ellison rarely stopped and bought coffee, especially on his way to a crime scene, so he'd be working without benefit of caffeine. Blair fixed two travel mugs, one for himself and one for his partner, then shut off the pot. He strapped on his shoulder holster and got his revolver from the locked gun case, pocketed his keys, notebook and pen, and donned his jacket, and was out the door, balancing the two mugs with care as he headed for the elevator.

#####

Blair worked his way through the organized chaos of a crime scene investigation, inquiring once or twice where he might find Ellison. Finally he spotted his partner crouched next to a zipped body bag, scanning the ground intently. Thanking his lucky stars that the victim was already 'bagged,' and therefore not visible, Blair circled around so that he approached Jim from the front, and spoke quietly. He knew better than to startle the ex-Ranger by creeping up on him from behind. Jim had probably sensed him coming, but there was no reason to take unnecessary chances.

"Hey, Jim." He held out one of the travel mugs. "Brought you some coffee."

Ellison raised his head, gazing abstractedly at his advancing partner. His frown of concentration faded, and he offered a tentative smile. "Bless you, Chief – and thanks for coming." He took the mug from Blair and practically inhaled the contents. "God, that's good! I owe you, buddy." He took another gulp, then cast one hand out in an encompassing gesture. "Not sure there's anything here to pick up, but…"

"But we can try." Blair sank to his heels beside Jim and laid a hand lightly against his back. "I know you probably already went over everything." He had deduced from Jim's demeanor that they were in professional mode right now, last night's confrontation put on the back burner, but the wary smile and the 'thanks for coming' revealed the Sentinel's doubt about Blair's turning up at all, or at least uncertainty about his mood. Evidently Jim had been worried too – and he looked as if he'd had about as much sleep as Blair had – in other words, not much.

"Tried, didn't come up with anything," Ellison said tersely. "He wasn't killed here, he was dumped, that much I know. Not enough blood." He leaned slightly into Blair's supporting hand and resumed his careful contemplation of the area. To a casual observer he would have seemed to be merely gazing around at the crime scene again, but Blair knew he was taking minute inventory of everything around him, down to the smallest particles – something he was reluctant to do for any extended amount of time when Sandburg wasn't there to help him avoid zoning. But after a few minutes Jim drew in a deep breath and shook his head dismissively. "If there's anything here I can't spot it. Whoever did this was very careful not to leave any traces."

"Cause of death?" Blair pulled out his notebook and pen.

"Single bullet to the forehead is the obvious cause, but Dan may find something else, something additional." Jim reached for the body bag. "You want to see him? I didn't recognize him, but there's always a chance you might."

Blair grimaced but nodded. "Yeah, guess I'd better." He tensed instinctively as Ellison unzipped the bag, and was only slightly surprised to feel Jim's hand settle reassuringly on his shoulder. He gulped a little and forced himself to observe the victim dispassionately. Thankfully, there was just the single hole punched in the middle of his forehead, and equally to be praised, Blair had never seen him before. He shook his head, indicating no knowledge of the identity. "Very…tidy," he managed, as Ellison closed the bag again.

"Professional," Jim decreed. He sighed a little and pushed himself to his feet, then extended a hand to Blair. "Think we've seen all we can see here. How about some breakfast before we go to the station?"

"I…guess." Blair felt his insides tighten apprehensively.

Jim gave him a sharp glance and seemed to understand. "Something light," he qualified, and Blair nodded heartfelt agreement.

###

They were quiet over their belated breakfast. Neither one wanted to break this temporary truce by bringing up the ugly scenes from the night before. Surprisingly, Jim made the first overture.

"Chief…about last night…um…I'm sorry, really sorry for the way I've been acting lately. I don't mean to be so…so…critical." Cringing inside, he waited for his roommate's expected acid comeback where he _really_ clarified what Jim's behavior had been. 'Critical' indeed – he could just imagine what Blair, the articulate wordsmith, would call it!

Blair, however, didn't respond as anticipated. He simply looked up from his plate of assorted melon slices and sighed a little. His eyes were heavy, dark-shadowed with weariness. "I know. It isn't just you, Jim. I was out of line last night," he admitted quietly, "and I'm sorry too."

Jim was about to say something more when his cell phone chirped. With rolling eyes and a long-suffering sigh, he pulled it from his pocket and answered it. Concluding the conversation, he signaled to Blair that they needed to go. "Sorry, Chief. Dan wants us around when he does the autopsy on our mystery man. Guess we'll have to put this conversation on hold again."

When they finally made it to the precinct the partners were swept into the workday – already full, and now there was the addition of their new case as well. They kept strictly to business; they had little time to do anything else – but Ellison paid close attention to his actions and reactions all morning, determined not to let anything spoil the tentative rapprochement between himself and Blair.

#####

Joel Taggart, acting division head, was no dummy. He had observed the increasing tension between Sandburg and Ellison and it worried him. Familiar with both men and their personalities, Taggart suspected that this was probably a case of too much togetherness, exacerbated by the current work overload, but there hadn't been any chance to give them – or the rest of the detectives in Major Crimes – a respite. They both looked bad today, he noted, and searched for some pretext to separate them temporarily. A recently-received memo caused the captain's eyes to light up and prompted a satisfied smile. He waited until he saw Ellison leave his desk and head to the elevator, then popped his head around his office door.

"Blair, can I see you a minute, please?"

Sandburg glanced up. It was always a shock to hear Joel's politely-phrased requests rather than Simon Banks' bellowed demands. "Sure, be right there." He minimized the computer program he was in and closed the file folder on his desk, then rose to his feet and went to the captain's office. Joel gestured to a chair, but Blair shook his head. "I'll stand, thanks. What's up?"

"Blair, I need you to do something for me," Taggart began. He didn't meet the younger man's eyes, instead concentrating on shuffling papers on the desk. "There's a station-wide request out for an emergency temporary person to handle Media Relations, and I would like to send you downstairs for a few days to fill it."

"Wha-a-a-a-t?" Caught completely by surprise, Blair sat down in the visitor's chair with a thump. "Media Relations! Joel, you gotta be kidding; you know I can't be a media spokesperson for the force! I do my best to keep completely under the radar as it is! The press got to know me way too well, back when!"

Now Taggart looked up. He noticed that Sandburg's eyes were wide – and wild – and he was nervously running a hand through his hair, snarling and disheveling it. Blair was obviously upset at the prospect of tangling with the media again, in any capacity.

"I already thought of that. You don't have to deal with the press directly. We can work around that. Someone else can liaison directly with them, but M-R's lost their press-release writer for a week or so – something about somebody having a baby prematurely." He waved the memo at his thunderstruck detective. "I think you'd be ideal to write press releases – short-term, of course," Joel added reassuringly. "You can BS—"

"Obfuscate," Blair corrected automatically.

"Exactly." Taggart's eyes twinkled. "You can do that better than anyone else I know. If any release needs any sort of spin, you can spin it favorably for the PD. And your writing skills are well known. You could do this with one hand tied behind your back, Blair."

Blair's head was whirling. It was unthinkable – Ellison would have conniption fits, and rightly so…and yet, here was a chance to let Jim have some breathing space, and to give himself some as well. "What about Jim?" he asked. "We're already shorthanded—"

"Brown's going to be back on desk duty tomorrow," Joel replied. "And Jim spent years working solo; a few days of it now aren't going to hurt him. You've spoiled him, Blair; he seems to think you're not only a partner, you're his indentured servant and private secretary, and personal punching bag – I mean that figuratively! – or something. The man can type his own reports for a bit. Besides, you'll be right here in the building if anything comes up. It's not like we're sending you to Outer Mongolia."

"I…guess, but…."

"Good." Taggart slapped his palms on the desk blotter. "Done deal. Grab your stuff and get down there. Second floor. Report to Captain Fitzgerald."

"But Jim…I need to tell him…"

"I'll inform Jim." Something steely in the other man's voice and gaze reminded Blair that this _was_ a police captain he was talking to. Joel might look and act easygoing most of the time, but if you were smart you didn't push him beyond the limits. "Now go. Dismissed, Detective."

"Right; on my way." Blair exited the office and quickly shut down the program he'd been working on. He picked up his jacket, patting the pocket to make sure his cell phone was there, then scanned the double desks hastily, deciding that there was nothing else he needed, and headed for the precinct's second floor. He wished he'd left a note for Jim, but after what Joel said…he wondered just how Captain Taggart was going to 'inform' Ellison that his partner had been summarily taken away!

###

When Jim returned to the bullpen from evidence lockup, he noticed immediately that Sandburg was no longer at his desk, but assumed he was in the break room or somewhere else nearby. He sat down and resumed working, but after a few minutes looked up again, scanning the big room for any sight, sound or scent of his partner. With a start he realized that Blair's coat was missing from the rack.

"Rafe, do you know where Sandburg is?"

The other detective looked up absently from his paperwork. "Huh? Blair? No. I think he was talking to Taggart a while ago, though. Maybe he's still in there."

"Hmmm." No, he wasn't in Simon's office; a quick check with heightened senses told Jim that there was only one occupant – and that occupant wasn't his partner. Expanding his area of coverage told him Blair wasn't currently anywhere near Major Crimes. Frowning, he thoroughly searched their desks for a note that Blair might have left. He checked his cell phone for messages. Nothing. Where in the world could Sandburg have gone? Slightly miffed but not really worried, assuming that wherever Blair was he would show up in his own good time, he returned to the tasks which seemed to multiply every time he turned around.

###

As the minutes ticked by with no sign of Sandburg, Jim became more and more irked, confused and worried. He was fairly sure that Blair hadn't simply left in some sort of snit at _him_ …their interaction this morning had been relatively cordial. If he'd gone out on some sort of casework, or to meet with a snitch, he would have left a message. Jim picked up the phone three times to dial Blair's cell, and replaced it three times without completing the call. He didn't want to be seen as checking up on Sandburg, implying that the younger man had no independent rights…but damn it, where _was_ Blair, and why didn't he call in to let people know what was going on, so they didn't have to worry…? Finally Jim decided to check with their acting captain.

"Joel – can I have a minute?"

Taggart leaned back in his chair. "Come in, Jim. I figured you'd be dropping in sooner or later. Sit down."

Ellison sank uneasily into the indicated chair. "Did you send Sandburg out on something? He seems to have…disappeared."

Taggart's lips twitched slightly. "As a matter of fact, I did. I loaned him out to another division – temporarily, Jim, calm down!"

The caution to calm down wasn't heeded; Ellison leaped to his feet and loomed over the seated captain, his fists braced against the desk top. "You loaned him out!? When we're already short—"

"Jim…"

"Where'd you send him?"

"Jim…"

"I need him back, Joel!"

"Jim!" More softly: "Shut up and sit down, Detective, and give me a chance to explain, all right?"

Ellison blinked and complied, sinking into the chair once more. "When'd you start channeling Simon?"

Joel snorted. "You don't think I've watched him work? Now, listen up. Blair's just down on the second floor. Media Relations – Jim, SIT DOWN!"

"Media…you can't; they'll eat him alive, Joel! You think those reporters don't have memories like elephants?"

Taggart stared up at the ceiling. "Give me strength," he pleaded, just above a whisper. Then, louder, "Jim, for Pete's sake would you mind letting me talk for more than a few words at a time?"

"Sorry." Ellison sat down again, looking somewhat sheepish. "But…Media Relations?"

"Blair's not going to be up against the beat reporters, he's going to be writing press releases, and someone else will deliver them," Joel explained carefully. He picked up the memo and handed it across the desk. "Read that. You'll see where he's at and what he'll be doing – and yes, I know they requested someone to liaison with the press, but that's already been worked out."

Jim rapidly scanned the missive and then handed it back, looking rueful but resigned. "But…why Blair? He's my partner, and you just sent him off without even asking me?" He paused, scowling. "And why didn't he leave me a note or something? That underhanded, sneaky—"

"Don't get the idea he wanted to leave without telling you, because he did want to," Taggart forestalled the rising diatribe. "I told him I'd take care of it, that I'd tell you." Joel leaned back in his chair and surveyed his colleague somberly. "And as for why I sent him…I sent him because I thought he needed to get away from here for a little bit, and it was a heaven-sent viable reason. Was I wrong, Jim?"

Long seconds passed before Jim replied, his voice very subdued. "No…no, you weren't wrong."

#####

Down on the second floor, where he'd been greeted with almost tearful delight by Captain Fitzgerald and the rest of the people working Media Relations, Blair took a break from his new job, pulled out his cell phone and checked it – again – to make sure it was turned on, the battery was fully charged, and that he hadn't received any calls that – for whatever reason – he'd missed picking up. Nothing showed. No received calls, no messages left, no nothing.

Evidently Jim didn't give a rat's ass whether he was around or not, so much so that he either didn't _notice_ Blair had disappeared from Major Crimes, he didn't _care_ that Blair had disappeared from Major Crimes…or he was _happy_ to have him gone and perhaps had gone out to lunch to celebrate.

Feeling bitter, Blair savagely stuffed the little phone back into his pocket and returned to his task of writing press releases and the short routine reports that went in the daily newspapers. It was interesting, if somewhat tedious; he'd never had a chance to really think about the minutiae of the day-to-day activities of the uniformed officers, or much about how information was funneled to the newspapers and radio and television. He'd been far too busy with Major Crimes.

 _Why_ hadn't Jim called?

A sudden thought made him halt his activities and lean back in the chair, eyes raised to the ceiling, as if he could see through several floors up to Major Crimes. Maybe Jim had expected _him_ to call? Joel had said that he'd take care of telling Jim about the temporary transfer, but maybe…just maybe…Jim had been waiting to hear it from Blair as well. Or had Joel, for whatever reasons known only to himself, forbidden Jim to contact him?

His head sagged forward. "Sandburg, you're a first-class moron," he muttered, and pulled out the cell phone again. He punched the appropriate buttons and waited while the call went through.

" _Ellison."_ Jim sounded normal, unflurried, but…was there a note of relief in the even tones? He'd know who was calling, of course; their cells had Caller ID.

"Hey, it's me. Joel tell you where he sent me?"

" _Yeah, he did. How's it in Media Relations?"_

"They were so desperate for help down here they practically held a ticker-tape parade when I arrived, man!" Blair chuckled, and was heartened to hear answering low laughter from Jim. "It's…different. It's a lot less high-pressure than Major Crimes."

" _Try not to get spoiled. But…I think maybe you needed the break."_ Jim had stopped laughing, but he didn't sound upset, merely thoughtful.

Blair sighed. "I think maybe you might be right. But I don't want to _stay_ here," he added hastily. "This is strictly short-time."

" _I know, Chief."_

"Everything okay up there?"

Jim laughed again. _"You've been gone what, two hours? What all did you think might have changed in that time?"_

"Nothing, I don't know, I just meant…"

" _Everything's fine, Chief. No problems."_

"Oh. Well…that's good." Blair suddenly felt stupid for calling and bothering Jim, who was obviously suffering no difficulties without his partner and Guide. "Um…right. Anyway. Guess I'd better let you go; I'm sure you have things to do."

" _Hey, wait a minute…they give you lunch breaks down there in Media Relations? It's already past one."_

"I suppose so, yeah."

" _Hungry yet? You didn't have much breakfast."_ Ellison sounded solicitous, in a 'you never take any kind of care of yourself' sort of way.

"I could eat."

" _Meet me in the lobby in 15 minutes?"_

A feeling of relief swept through Sandburg at the question. It reassured him a lot. Even though he knew he drove Jim crazy at times and vice versa, apparently the Sentinel still wanted him around. But he looked at the piles of paper on his desk and frowned. "Make it half an hour and I think I can do it."

" _Half an hour. See you then, Chief."_ Sudden 'dead air' told Sandburg Jim had ended the call.

###

Blair skidded down the stairs and burst into the lobby, looking hastily around for Jim and hoping against hope Ellison had been held up by something or other. _Ten minutes late – hell, he probably went without me!_ Jim hated Blair's chronic tardiness, and never overlooked an excuse to rag on him about it. But luck was with Blair, for a few moments later an elevator _dinged_ and opened to discharge an irritated-looking Sentinel.

"Sorry – got a phone call just as I was leaving."

"That's okay, man." Guilt and honesty made him add, "I just got here myself."

Ellison's expression lightened. "In that case, let's go."

Lunch was as amicable as their belated breakfast had been, and laced with humorous commentary on Blair's new temporary workplace and tasks. Jim caught him up to date on how their cases were progressing – which didn't take a lot of conversation, as nothing had changed in any of them. Ellison also expressed – emphatically – his feelings regarding Joel Taggart's high-handed reassignment of Blair. Sandburg, both touched and amused, agreed in theory, but didn't join in the litany of complaints. When they finished eating and settled back for a last few minutes with refilled coffee cups Blair leaned across the table with a pleading expression in his eyes.

"Ya know, Jim, this temporary transfer is a good thing, in a way – I know, I know, it was a shock and a surprise, and Joel was kinda abrupt about it…but he was right. We've been attached at the hip without any relief for too long." Seeing Jim's expression go stony and his eyes cold, Blair hastily continued. "Listen up, man, I am NOT saying I want it to be anything more than a couple days long. I don't. Don't try to read things into this that I'm not saying or don't mean, and don't twist it so that you feel justified in severing the partnership or kicking me out of the loft…" He paused, not seeing any softening in Ellison's features. "Or maybe you do want that…"

"God NO!" Jim's hand moved like a striking snake to clutch Blair's wrist. "Never, Chief!"

Blair stared deep into the ice-blue eyes across the table. "You sure about that?"

"Very sure. Don't want you moving out. Don't want you transferring elsewhere in the department. Don't want to lose you in any way, shape or form." The strong fingers tightened to a painful intensity. "Already came way too close to that."

Blair shut his eyes, both in a quick prayer of relief and thanks, and also to hide the discomfort he was afraid would show; Jim sometimes forgot his own strength. A half-second later he felt the iron grip around his wrist bones ease to a more tolerable level.

"Sorry." Jim sounded both embarrassed and contrite. "Didn't mean to do that." He massaged Blair's throbbing wrist gently. "But no, I don't want you to leave. At all."

"And I don't want to leave. At all." Blair smiled, relieved when Ellison did the same. "But I still think it's fortunate about the reassignment because I was driving you nuts—"

"And I've been driving you nuts. I remember last night very clearly, Chief. We're both at fault here."

"Granted...but—" Blair started to continue, then caught a glimpse of Jim's wristwatch. "Oh crap, I've gotta get back!" He started to rise but was immobilized by Ellison's unrelenting hold. "Jim…"

"I know, Chief. Listen up: you're right and I admit it – as long as we agree it's strictly temporary, and we'll figure out later what to do for a permanent solution."

Blair turned his wrist and clasped Jim's arm tightly…reassuringly. "You got it. And now let's go, before Media Relations sends me back to Major Crimes for being unreliable!"

#####

After lunch Ellison left the bullpen to interview witnesses. With so many cases hanging fire, it was fairly simple to find people to talk to. The hard part was remembering which case he was working on at any specific time! He had just finished up one such cozy little chat when his cell phone rang. He yanked it from his pocket.

"Ellison."

" _Hey, it's me."_

Jim suppressed a sigh. "Don't tell me, let me guess: you have to work late, right?"

" _I'm really sorry. It's taking me a little longer to get the hang of this than I anticipated. I mean…I can do it, it just takes longer than I think it will."_

"Lucky we drove separate vehicles."

" _I'm sorry,"_ Blair repeated miserably. _"I'll be done as soon as I can."_

Predictably, Jim's heart melted in the face of his partner's remorse. "Don't worry about it, Chief. Let's just figure on going out for dinner after you get done. Maybe I'll swing by the grocery store and pick up a few things on my way home, and then we'll at least have some options for a few days."

" _Okay."_ Blair sounded a bit happier now. _"I should make it by…seven…or so."_

"Take all the time you need. It's all right." Jim did his best to sound reassuring. "See you when I see you."

" _Right – bye."_

Jim called Rhonda after his conversation with Blair ended and asked her to log him out for the day. He made a stop to buy a cartful of groceries and a 12-pack of their favorite brand of beer, then headed for the loft. It took him three trips to get everything up to their third floor apartment. He took the elevator the first two times, then virtuously chose the stairs for the final trip. After putting things away he went out onto the balcony to enjoy the view of the Sound for a few minutes.

How were they to solve this problem? It might blow over again and again, and pretty much disappear when things were going well…but when they weren't, when situations either at work or in their personal lives caused too much tension and they couldn't get any time to themselves…

At least Sandburg had stated emphatically that he _didn't_ _want_ any sort of separation, either professionally or personally, and Jim knew without a doubt that Blair wasn't lying, wasn't obfuscating, wasn't shading the truth. He also knew without a doubt that he, himself, was in complete agreement with Blair. There had to be a solution of sorts; they just hadn't thought of it yet.

Pensively, Jim gazed downward toward the street, his eyes idly scanning the balcony just below their own – the one attached to Apartment #207. The place had been vacant for a long time now – since right after the debacle with Warren Chapel, when #307 had been shot up. The woman who had occupied the place had stuck it out through Larry the Barbary ape's double trashing of Jim's apartment, and had even put up with the incidents of David Lash and Colonel Oliver, and Incacha's death. But Warren Chapel had been the last straw, and she had moved out. The owner of the building had been unable to even interest anyone since – at least so far as Jim knew.

 _Hmmm…wonder what that place rents or sells for? It's smaller than this one. Blair might be able to manage a lease, or payments. It would be close, but still a separate place of his own._

Ellison considered the pros and cons of having Blair live a floor below in his own apartment. He thought about plenty of hot water for showers, about not having things scattered over every square inch of the apartment, of putting up with the odor of algae shakes and another person's bathroom smells. He thought about being able to watch whatever he wanted to watch on television when he wanted to watch it, not having to negotiate for 'real' sports or action movies versus a rugby match or The Discovery Channel, or some _avant_ - _garde_ foreign flick with subtitles.

And then he thought about nightmares, and injuries, and sensory spikes and zones…and not having anyone around to soothe him, or pull him out. He thought of _Blair's_ nightmares and injuries, and not being right there to comfort him, or ease his hurts, both physical and emotional. He thought of shared breakfasts and companionable dinners and evenings sprawled at either end of the long couch, munching popcorn and mixed nuts and yelling for and cursing out the Jags or the Mariners or the Seahawks. He thought of Blair flinging peanuts at the television set, enraged over what he considered a bad call by a referee. And he felt his heart contract painfully when he tried out the thought _'never again?'_

But maybe that's what Blair needed and wanted?

He stared down at the second-floor balcony again and then resolutely squared his shoulders. There was no time like the present, and nothing would be gained by putting this off. He went inside and looked up the telephone number of the building manager.

Don Tapscott lived on the second floor and was home when Jim called. He was quite willing to show Detective Ellison the apartment directly below his own. No one had evinced any interest in 207 for months, and although Tapscott couldn't imagine why Ellison was requesting a tour, any sign of curiosity about it was enthusiastically welcomed.

Tapscott unlocked the front door and ushered Ellison inside. "Take all the time you want, Detective. If you have questions, I'll try to answer them."

Jim stood near the door and gazed speculatively around the place, then slowly began to move about, looking at everything with Sentinel meticulousness. Being below his and Blair's abode, the basic layout was similar, to accommodate structural and plumbing concerns, but there were some significant differences as well. The kitchen and bath were in the same places, and there were the glass doors opening onto a balcony – but there were no skylights, for of course this apartment wasn't on the top floor of the building. There was an elevated loft bedroom that resembled Jim's, but was somewhat smaller, and with a much lower ceiling. The room which corresponded to Blair's had the same fire-escape door and outside windows , but none that looked into the main apartment. Floor-length strings of sparkly glass beads formed a fluid barrier to the small room. Jim fingered them gently, listening to their soft rattle.

The bathroom differed in that there were glass doors on the shower/tub enclosure, rather than a plastic curtain, and the fixtures were newer. The living room was carpeted, as was the loft bedroom, rather than having hardwood flooring, and like the residence above, had a freestanding gas fireplace. The whole place had evidently been cleaned and freshly painted after the last tenant's departure. The Sentinel appreciated that. It smelled dusty, but there was no mildew odor or food-in-carpet redolence.

"What's the asking price?" Jim inquired, and nodded thoughtfully when Tapscott quoted him a number. It was substantially less than what he'd paid for his condo when he'd received his back pay from the military, even accounting for inflation. It was probably too rich for Blair's pocketbook…but then, Jim had a hidden ace up his sleeve in that regard. "Is that subject to negotiation?" Tapscott reluctantly conceded that negotiation was a possibility. "Would the owner take a downpayment and the rest in monthly payments, you think?"

"Well, I'd think so. There are several units that haven't been bought outright, people make monthly payments…and one's merely being rented. This one was rented before. But I can't really answer that with any certainty, since I'm not the owner."

"It's been vacant a long time," Ellison murmured. "How much money do you suppose has been lost over the last couple of years?" He ignored the little inner voice that reminded him it probably had been vacant because of the escapades of the neighbors living directly above – and their various and sundry visitors.

Tapscott looked pained…and shrugged noncommittally. It wasn't really his problem.

Jim moved into the living room again and stared thoughtfully at the bare corner just to the right of the glass balcony doors. He looked up at the ceiling, apparently estimating size measurements. "Thanks for the tour," he said at last. "I want to think about a few things, but I'll get back to you." Smiling slightly, he strolled to the front door and exited. Behind him, Tapscott heaved an impatient sigh, wondering just what _that_ had all been about, and if he'd just wasted 45 minutes of his time.

###

Once back in his own home, Ellison called in a 7:15 dinner reservation at a nearby restaurant that he and Blair both liked. It probably wasn't totally necessary to make reservations on a weeknight, but he suspected Sandburg would be both tired and ravenous by the time he got home. No sense in making him wait any longer than necessary. Feeling a few hunger pangs himself, Jim grabbed some crackers and cheese, and then sat down at the kitchen table with a tablet, ruler and pencil. He stared thoughtfully at the living room, conceded the gas fireplace wasn't movable and switched his concentration to the other side of the room. He mentally removed the shelves with the stereo system and the speakers, and scooted Blair's large potted plant elsewhere, sketching rough diagrams on the tablet. Once he stood and paced off the distance from the outside wall to the stairs, then sat down and sketched again.

By the time Blair got home Jim had a couple of sheets of paper folded in his shirt pocket and a speculative gleam in his ice-blue eyes. True to his prediction, Sandburg arrived at 7:05, looking tired, but wearing a definite air of satisfaction and achievement. "Yo, Jim!"

"We've got 7:15 reservations at the Harborside," Jim announced without bothering to return the salutation. "So no time for a shower, Chief."

Blair's eyebrows elevated. "The Harborside? N-i-i-ice! No wonder you're not wearing jeans and flannel. Well, just give me a chance to change and use the bathroom, at least!" He tossed his jacket at its customary hook – and surprisingly, it stayed there – and disappeared down the hallway. Exiting in a few minutes, he ducked into his room for a short time and emerged clad in casual dress slacks, instead of the khakis he'd worn to work, and a soft deep-green pullover sweater.

Jim surveyed him, lips quirking with amusement. "You clean up pretty good, partner."

Blair gave a haughty sniff and stuck his nose in the air. "One must endeavor to live up to the Harborside, my good man." Then, in his usual tone: "How'd you happen to pick there? I mean, this is just dinner…isn't it?"

Jim's expression softened. "It's an apology dinner and you know it. Now let's go." He put on his own coat, then offered Blair his black leather jacket, rather than the lighter-weight cotton one the younger man had recently removed. Blair nodded thanks and followed Jim from the apartment.

Upon arrival they were shown immediately to their table. They ordered appetizers and wine, then settled down to peruse the menu. To Jim's surprise, Blair simply read through his, nodded decisively and set it down, rather than going through his usual 'discuss every menu item, pros and cons, and take ten minutes choosing – and then ask for substitutions when the waiter comes to take the orders' routine. "I'll have the grilled salmon."

"You decided already?"

"Yeah – I know it makes you nuts when I dither."

Jim's lips tightened fractionally. _Uh-oh, someone's feeling a tad bit insecure again._ "I don't mind you taking your time choosing what to have for dinner, Chief," he said carefully.

"Yes, you do." Blair eyed him soberly. "That muscle in your jaw twitches when I start comparing entrees and stuff. So…no comparisons and no dithering. Okay?"

"Sure." Jim forced a smile and retreated behind his menu. He'd thought things had smoothed out with his partner during the day, but Blair's edginess of this morning seemed to have returned. He wondered why. Hadn't he been perfectly pleasant when Blair came home? "Think I'll have the same." He caught their waiter's eye and signaled him over. When the man had departed with their orders Jim picked up his wineglass and leaned back in his chair.

"Chief, what's the matter? And don't obfuscate."

Somewhat to his surprise, Blair didn't try to evade the question. "I just…I feel like this is the 'letting me down easy' scene, you know? Where you take me out to a nice place for dinner and then over dessert explain how I'll need to find a new place to live and a new place of employment—"

"BLAIR!" Hastily, Ellison lowered his voice to a conversational level. "Dammit! We already went through this, didn't we? I thought we'd settled the fact that I don't want you to move out or change jobs or whatever else you might be thinking…." He stopped, dread making him suddenly feel chilled. "Or did you change your mind?"

Sandburg shook his head. "No. No, of course I didn't."

Jim sighed. "Look, I've had a couple of ideas that might help—" Blair's head came up sharply. "but I didn't want to spring them on you before dinner."

"But—"

"Chief, can't you trust me for even a little while? We'll both feel better with some food in our stomachs, more like talking things out."

Blair flushed. "I always trust you, you know that. I'm sorry. I'm just…" He fiddled with his silverware.

"Worried, yeah, I get that. So let's just relax and have dinner and then we'll talk about it – okay?"

A sheepish smile tilted Sandburg's lips. "Who are you and what did you do with my partner? That did not sound like the Jim Ellison I know and love."

"Doofus."

#####

An hour and a half later they were lingering over dessert, both somewhat mellow from their dinner wine and after-dinner liqueurs.

"Okay, I've waited long enough. Spill," Blair directed with a 'get on with it' circular gesture.

Jim nodded and took a few seconds to organize his thoughts. "I went home a little early today," he began. "And I got to thinking about the apartment right below us – #207."

"It's empty. Has been for a long time," Blair contributed.

"I asked the building manager if I could take a look at it. And he was glad to show it to me."

Blair sat up straight, his face pale. "I thought you said – you didn't want…Jim, I can't afford to buy a condo in your building!"

"Wait, just wait. You haven't let me get to my idea yet." Pausing until Blair settled back in his seat again, Jim continued. "I admit, at first I was considering suggesting you think about moving there. It's nice, Chief, and you'd like it, I'm sure. It's like ours, only smaller, and some newer things in it. But I didn't really like the idea of not being able to…this is going to sound funny." An embarrassed flush colored his cheekbones. "I didn't like the thought of not having you…right there. You'd just be one floor down, but we still couldn't…"

"I get it," Blair said softly. "I get it. If you were spiking or something, and I didn't know because I was a floor away."

"And the opposite." Jim fixed him with an intense stare, his face returning to its normal hue. "If something happened – you were sick or hurt…well… And then I had another idea." Blair waited, striving to look encouraging. "I wondered if there was some way we could do some remodeling and merge the two apartments."

"MERGE them? How?"

Ellison grinned mischievously. "Cut a hole in the floor of our living room and put in a staircase – maybe circular, so it wouldn't take up too much room." He pulled out the folded sheets of paper. "Look at these. I'm no architect, and these are pretty rough, but you'll get the idea."

Blair took the drawings and stared down at them, brow furrowed in concentration. After a few moments he met Jim's hopeful gaze, his own eyes reflecting both uncertainty and desire. "We'd each have our own place, except that they'd be connected, and we could still do things together when we wanted to. But…but…the owner would never go for something like this! It wouldn't be cost-effective—"

"Chief, that apartment's been vacant for a long time. It isn't cost-effective now!"

"But you'd…you'd CUT A HOLE in the living room floor?" Sandburg's voice rose to a squeak, and Ellison made a shushing motion, glancing around the restaurant. They were receiving more than one curious stare. Blair gulped and subsided, but still kept sputtering…quietly.

"Jim…this all sounds amazing – and kinda insane – but man, I cannot afford to buy a condo. Unlike some people, I don't have $50,000 in back military pay just hangin' around, remember?"

If Jim had been a less forthright-appearing man, some might have said he actually looked…shifty. "Well, about that…"

"What?" Blair's eyes narrowed. "I don't have that kind of money and you don't either, and if you're thinking of asking your dad…"

Jim grinned. "I hadn't, but it's not a bad idea, Junior. I'll keep it in mind." Blair groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Anyway, nobody said you had to buy it outright. Some of the apartments are rented. Come on, work with me here. Just for a minute, pretend you have the money and just think about it. If you could buy the apartment below ours, or rent it for a reasonable amount, and if we were allowed to create a double residence out of it…how would you feel about it?"

Blair took his face from his hands and stared hard at his partner and best friend. His eyes were luminous. "I think I'd love it," he said fervently.

Jim smile seemed to illuminate the whole corner where they were sitting. "Good. Let's go find a way to make it happen, then." He got to his feet and urged Blair up too. They had already paid the bill; there was nothing to hinder their departure. "Come on, Chief, I'll bet I can get Tapscott to open up 207 for us."

###

Jim was correct; Tapscott might have rolled his eyes but he obliged. Instead of going along with them, he merely handed Jim the key and requested that they make sure things were locked up when they left. "Return the key tonight. You can drop it in that lockbox," he said, indicating a small receptacle fastened to the wall near his front door, and went back into his own apartment, thus ending the conversation.

"Let's go." Jim placed his hand on the small of Blair's back, firmly pushing him along. Blair complied, but with some reluctance. Reality was making a comeback.

"But Jim…this is all just a pipe dream, remember? I can't afford—"

Jim was busy unlocking the door to #207 and didn't reply. He opened it and flipped a light switch. "Just look at it, Sandburg, okay?"

Blair looked…sighed…looked again. Sighed again, this time longingly. "Okay, I'm hooked." He began to walk around, eyes enormous with poorly-suppressed excitement, murmuring soft commentary. Jim leaned against the kitchen island and crossed his arms, watching with fond amusement.

When Blair had spent perhaps ten minutes investigating the place he returned to the kitchen area and his patiently waiting partner. "You shouldn't do this to me, man…my heart's gonna break when I wake up and realize that it's all an impossibility, you know."

"Want to talk about it here or upstairs?"

 _*Deep sigh*_ "Upstairs."

They returned the key and ascended the stairs in silence. Jim was still smiling that enigmatic _I know something you don't know_ smile, but Blair didn't notice. His head was down as he concentrated on watching where he placed his feet. Once in their apartment the two men, by unspoken agreement, separated to change into comfortable casual clothes. They met in the living room and settled onto the couch, one at either end, with steaming cups of tea.

"Now, what's this big mystery you keep edging around, about money?" Blair demanded. "I mean it that you aren't going to pay for this—"

Jim lifted one hand. "I'll gag you if I have to," he warned. "I'll explain, but I want to do it without interruptions."

Blair pursed his lips and made a zipping motion across them. He remained silent, but his eyes implored Jim to continue.

"You've been paying me rent for how long now…over five years, right?" Jim began. Blair nodded, but resolutely kept his lips clamped shut. "Did you ever wonder what I was doing with the rent money, if you thought about it? I didn't need it to pay my rent – I own this place, free and clear. I do have to pay taxes, granted, and utilities and all that," he added, as Blair opened his mouth to comment. "And yes, I know you missed the rent occasionally. But not all that often. So – I figure you've maybe paid me…what – around $3,000 a year for five years. That sound about right to you?"

Blair nodded again.

"Well, back when you started contributing rent, I opened up an interest-bearing savings account, and the rates weren't bad back then, and they were locked in. Four percent, compounded quarterly. I've been putting your rent money in there ever since, and the balance is well over $19,000. If we agree that we'd like to do this with the two condos, and it can be worked out, that money is there to use – whether for payments on the second-floor apartment or for remodeling, or a combination. And don't say that you can't take it, or something dumb like that – this is what I want to do with it."

Gazing meditatively down at the floor between his feet, he waited for Blair to respond. He waited…and waited some more. "Sandburg, you're allowed to talk now," he said at last, raising his head – and froze when he saw Blair sitting stiffly, eyes squeezed tightly shut, teeth clamped on his lower lip. The scent of saline wafted through the air. "Aw, Chief," he sighed. "Don't. It's okay, don't do that." He moved over to the other end of the couch and slid an arm about the rigid figure, then pulled Blair's head against his shoulder, feeling dampness soak through his sweatshirt. "Shh, it's okay." He let his cheek rest against his partner's curly hair.

"I…had…no idea," Blair choked out.

"I know."

"You shouldn't – you can't—"

"Hey, none of that," Ellison said, in mock severity. "You paid it to me; it's my money, I can spend it on anything I want to. I want to spend it on this." He patted Blair's back soothingly.

"I thought…I'd have…to leave…"

"Never."

Blair's hand was clenched tightly in the front of Ellison's sweatshirt; his face still buried against Jim's shoulder. "You're…crazy!" came the muffled words.

"Yeah, probably," Jim conceded, "but I'm happy in my lunacy. Come on." He joggled Blair gently. "Sit up, blow your nose, and let's talk about remodeling issues and how we're going to persuade the building owner to let us do this."

###

They stayed up until after midnight discussing various aspects of the idea. Once Blair was convinced that Jim really _was_ willing to cut a hole in the living room floor, and had every intention of using the 'rental account' money down to the last dime, if necessary, he stopped his feeble protests against the idea. The problem was, it was an incredible concept, and it sounded much too good to be true – and there still were a lot of issues to consider.

"Jim, the whole reason for this is to let both of us have a little more privacy if we want it – if we just put in an open staircase the same problem exists. You'll be able to hear every single thing I do, same as now! You'd hear my television programs and my music and my dishwasher and…everything."

"And vice versa, to a lesser degree, although I could keep the volumes lower for the stereo and television, at least. Chief, face it; I'll be able to hear you even if there wasn't an open staircase, if I want to. But I think there must be a way to create some sort of door, that opens from either side. An architect could figure one out."

"Well, maybe," Sandburg said doubtfully. "I've never seen anything like that, though. I mean, we don't want a trapdoor or something like that!"

"That's why architects make the money they do. We don't have to design it, Chief, we just have to find someone who can."

"If we're allowed to do it in the first place," Blair warned.

"We can talk to the building manager tomorrow, go from there—" Jim was caught by a sudden, unexpected yawn.

Blair laughed, but found himself wanting to do the same. "Man, we have got to get some sleep!" He stood up, stretching, his mind going back to a very different scene last night. _Wow, what a difference 24 hours can make…_

"At least tonight we might actually get some sleep." Jim's comment made it evident their thoughts were running in tandem again.

"Furniture." Blair was gazing around at their apartment's fixtures and decorations. "I'd have to buy furniture. And kitchen stuff, and bedding, and…"

"You don't have to buy it tonight," Jim reminded him. He got to his feet. "There's plenty of time to buy furniture and everything else. Although…I hoped you might leave some things here. I mean, maybe not take everything…" He suddenly no longer sounded quite so pleased with himself or self-assured, as he envisioned a return to sterile, bare walls and shelves with no more whimsical artifacts or photographs.

Blair turned to face him, his eyes very large and solemn. "I will, I promise," he vowed. "I have boxes of stuff packed away that were in my office at Rainier. I could leave everything here that's already out, and still fill up shelves and shelves in the new place." Suddenly the solemnity morphed into mirth, the big eyes lighting with laughter. "Hey, I just realized, I'd get a whole storage-space unit down in the basement too, wouldn't I? And – oh man, now there'd be a place for Naomi to stay when she comes to visit! If she didn't want to go the couch or small-spare-room route in my place, I could come up here to sleep and she could have my bedroom!"

Jim, who had _definitely_ considered this important fact when he first conceived the idea, nodded. "She can rearrange your furniture instead of mine."

"Assuming it becomes my place – and that I can afford any furniture!"

"It will. Trust me. Ah-ah, don't say it." Ellison lightly cuffed the back of his partner's head, then gave him a gentle shove in the direction of his bedroom. "Let's get to bed; I'll check the locks. Sleep well, Chief."

"Goodnight." Blair stopped and turned back. "Jim? You're…you're something else, you know that? There's absolutely nobody like you."

Ellison grinned. "So I've been told. And I might say the same for you. 'Night."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Originally written in 2009. Don't expect today's technology.

 _Note: Although most of the stories by me follow each other in a story arc of sorts, this one and "Feline Persuasion" would only be taking place if "Remodel and Rebuild" had not happened. Alternate realities, if you wish. _

_Thank you to Sarai and iloveagoodstory for their continued support with feedback, Follows and Favorites on these stories._

 **A Single Flight of Stairs**

 **Part 2**

By EvergreenDreamweaver

Things progressed slowly over the next week. Blair wanted to first get permission from the building owner to allow them to take over #207 and combine it with #307, before they pursued the actual architectural details. Jim, listening to his arguments for this tactic, saw right through it: Blair was afraid that the whole idea would be refused point-blank, or they would find out that the costs would be prohibitive, and he didn't want to get his hopes up only to have them dashed. Jim, on the other hand, wanted to have the building concept taken care of, so they would have something concrete to present with their request. He felt it would give them bargaining power to have answers already prepared for the most likely questions.

Blair gave in, reluctantly. It wasn't like they'd had much chance to do either, anyhow. He was still filling in down in Media Relations, and although things were returning to normal in Major Crimes, Jim's workload was still hellacious – and the situation was exacerbated by Blair's absence. Blair kept demanding that Jim bring home files, tried to talk about their cases…but for the most part, Jim refused, citing the fact that Joel had transferred Blair out for a reason, and trying to work both departments was a short road to a nervous breakdown!

"Chief, I promise; I'll tell you if I'm having problems, and I'll ask your opinion or for advice if I feel it's something you can help me with – but I'm not going to let you try to juggle both Major Crimes and Media Relations. Remember where overwork got us, last week!?"

###

Being a practical man, Jim contacted his father and brother, figuring that one or both of them would know who was tops in the architectural sphere of Cascade. Not that they were involved with architects all that much – but both William and Stephen knew the best people available in almost any business located in their city or near it.

Stephen's recommendation had been sound – but Harold Rayburn, the architect, was unable to effectively solve the 'sound drift' problem. "The only way you're going to get a sound barrier, Detective, is by putting in a door and walls around the stairs, at one end or another." Rayburn sketched and schemed and measured and sketched some more, attempting to create some sort of door to fit in a small stairwell opening, but was eventually forced to admit defeat.

"Detective Ellison, putting the stairs in is no problem. A circular staircase would be easy to do, and could be quite attractive. The sound barrier is the issue. And frankly, I don't see any way to do it. You can't put walls up to the ceiling; they're two stories high. You'd be essentially creating a little tube with stairs inside, which would be neither esthetic nor comfortable to use. The only way you are going to get a sound barrier is to install attic stairs, the sort that lower down when needed and are flat against the ceiling when not…and considering the height of your ceilings, it's not really feasible either. And certainly not convenient or attractive."

Jim stared at Mr. Rayburn, then down at the architect's drawings on the desk. He hadn't expected this. He'd been so sure that somewhere there was a design that would work. _Sandburg's going to be so disappointed!_ And Jim had to admit that he himself was very disappointed as well. "Uh…well, thank you for your time, Mr. Rayburn." He pushed back his chair and stood up.

"We can still design a circular stair for you, Detective – a very nice one." Mr. Rayburn didn't want to lose this promising client.

"I'll have to get back to you. Have to talk to my roommate about it before we do anything else." Jim, face held expressionless by iron control, made his escape as fast as he could. He was glad he'd made this a late-afternoon appointment, so he could go straight to the loft, rather than returning to work. Blair, of course, was still at the precinct, composing press releases. Tomorrow was supposed to be his last day in Media Relations – although Captain Fitzgerald had hinted that they wouldn't mind having him stay on, much to Jim's unease!

Driving home, Jim wracked his brain, seeking a way to tell Blair the bad tidings. The kid had been so upbeat the last few days, once he had let himself be convinced that this remodeling project was the ideal solution for them. They both had. They'd realized that there still was the issue of the building owner to deal with, but between Blair's ability to talk anyone into anything and Jim's dogged persistence and talent for intimidation, they had been optimistic about their chances with that. It hadn't occurred to either of them that their grand scheme wouldn't be _buildable_.

 _We can have the stairs – that isn't the problem_ , Jim reassured himself as he drove. _So maybe we can just live with it being open all the time._ He sighed a little – just a little – but truthfully, he knew it wasn't _him_ that it would bother all that much, it was Blair. Blair had taught and guided him to tune out extraneous noise, but lacked that same ability for himself. _Damn, he's going to be so disappointed!_

Arriving home, he set to work preparing dinner; tonight a simple meal consisting of meatloaf, baked potatoes and tossed salad, plus éclairs picked up at the bakery down the block, then sat down to watch the evening news while he waited for his partner's homecoming. He still hadn't figured out how to break the unpleasant news when Blair breezed in around six o'clock.

"Hey, Jim!" Sandburg hung up his jacket and stowed his service pistol carefully. "Something smells awfully good!"

"Chief." Jim summoned up a smile of welcome. "If you hurry you can shower before dinner – there's 15 minutes yet."

"I'm there." Blair headed for the bathroom.

 _Whew – at least a few more minutes!_

Jim finally decided to simply let Blair bring up the subject, rather than blurting everything out; he'd told the kid he was going to see Rayburn this afternoon, and he'd simply follow Blair's lead. Wasn't that usually the case, after all? Following Blair's lead meant things went okay, 99% of the time.

Dinner was relaxed and enjoyable. They talked about work – Jim had relaxed his ban on discussing cases, since Blair would be back 'home' in two days – and about the goings-on in both Major Crimes and Media Relations. Simon was back, Jim reported with a grin, aggravated as all get-out by his doctor's forbidding him to smoke for at least another ten days. Henri had returned to active duty, and there had been breaks in two of their backlog of cases.

They'd finished dinner and were cleaning up the kitchen before Blair finally asked about Jim's conversation with the architect. "So…what did that guy Rayburn have to say? You did see him, didn't you?"

Jim turned away from the sink and met his roommate's eyes squarely. "Not good news, I'm afraid," he said somberly. "He offered to design us a very nice set of circular stairs, but there doesn't seem to be a practical way to close it off on either end. If we do this, it's simply going to have to be an open stairwell. I'm really sorry. I thought it was such a good idea…" The words were simple, but the misery in Ellison's eyes revealed just how badly he felt.

But Blair, unpredictable as always, seemed entirely accepting of the news. He nodded thoughtfully, then hung up the dishtowel he'd been holding. "Let's go sit down and you can tell me all about it," he suggested gently, and led the way to the living room.

When they were seated comfortably, Jim recounted the conversation with Rayburn. "I was so sure there was some way to do it, but this guy's one of the best, according to Stephen, and if he can't figure out how…" he concluded gloomily. "I wanted you to be able to have some privacy – for the first time in five years!"

"Well, we'll work it out." Blair was worried for _Jim's_ sake, but didn't really mind for himself. "Hey man, it's okay. I mean it! And you know, we've both learned to be quieter anyway. We're used to it, and this does add another level for noise to travel. It'll be fine – I mean, it'll be fine with me. I'm thinking about getting those headphone thingies that they make to watch television so you don't bother people if you need the sound high – those would work just fine. It's you I'm not sure about, and we don't want to find out after we've chopped into your hardwood flooring that you aren't going to be able to stand it!"

"Our hardwood flooring," Ellison corrected gently. "You still live here, Junior, and it's just as much your flooring as mine."

Sandburg flushed "Yeah…well..."

"You're really okay with it?" Jim could hardly believe Blair had taken this setback so calmly.

"If you are, yeah." Blair reached out and rubbed Jim's shoulder comfortingly. "Really, Jim, it'll be okay."

"Hmmm." Jim eyed him a moment, but could detect no signs of deception. "Well…I'm good with it. You know I can always turn on the white noise generator if I have to, but I don't think I will, most of the time. As you say, I'm used to your noises. Okay…now we know we can do a circular staircase without any problems. I'm thinking we could get one of those kits and build it ourselves, rather than paying for architect plans and a carpenter and all that."

"A kit?!"

"Yeah, I found 'em online."

Blair took a deep breath. He hated raining on Jim's parade, for it wasn't often that the Sentinel let himself get so enthusiastic about anything…but Jim was getting ahead of himself. "Did you forget we maybe should talk to the building owner about this first?"

Jim looked chagrined; he could hardly argue the point. "I guess you're right," he allowed. "Want me to do it, or go together?"

"I think it would go over better if we go together."

"Tomorrow? Assuming we get off work the regular time?."

"Maybe not so fast, Jim. Let's do some homework first, and find out everything we can about the building and its finances, hmmm? I want to go in there armed with every argument we can muster!"

#####

Richard Mullenbeck, the owner of the building at 852 Prospect, was dumbfounded. It was rare that he received calls or visits from the tenants, for most problems or questions were handled by the on-site building manager. To have these two police officers facing him down in his own office – and although they were pleasant enough, they were both sober-faced, if not actually grim, the larger one, Ellison, especially – was a daunting experience. What was worse was that they came supplied with facts and figures and details…and a most outrageous request!

"Gentlemen…er, detectives…you must realize that this…this plan of yours…simply isn't to be considered," Mullenbeck stammered. "I can't allow you to simply cut my revenue in half merely because you want a larger apartment!"

"Cut your revenue in half? You don't get any revenue from Detective Ellison as it is; he owns his condo. And how much are you receiving from #207 at the moment?" Sandburg inquired sweetly. "How much have you received since the last tenant moved out, which was…" he briefly consulted a small notebook, "over two years ago?"

Mullenbeck glared. "None," he admitted reluctantly. "But that won't last forever."

"It certainly won't," Ellison interjected, "if you accept our proposal. Think about it: you'll be getting some rent revenue for the place, and what we're asking to put in is easily taken out if and when, years down the road and we're gone, someone else buys or rents it. Just take out the stairs and put a new piece of floor in 307."

"Besides, you might find that this arrangement would lead to a family buying in, one that needs more bedrooms – instead of just couples or singles," Sandburg put in, still very politely.

"We're offering to pay for all the alterations ourselves." Now Ellison was smiling too – but that was worse, in Mullenbeck's opinion; that smile quite made shivers go down his spine.

"Uh…yes, well…"

"Now – how much of a downpayment would you require on 207, and what would the payment terms be?" Ellison probed. "And keep in mind we've done some checking around. We know what the other tenants are paying in rent or paid to buy."

Mullenbeck hemmed and hawed and stuttered, and tried to protest, tried to deny them their request, but anyone who knew Ellison and Sandburg could have told him it was a lost cause. Between Blair's sweet-faced and calm-voiced persistence – and that blasted notebook full of damning financial details which showed just how much money Mullenbeck was losing every month – and Ellison's bland smiles that didn't reach his steely eyes, his totally inflexible, unflappable demeanor, the building owner was overwhelmed. Eventually he heard himself quoting an unbelievably low amount for a down payment, an equally outrageous amount for monthly payments…and agreeing to the outlandish concept of turning two perfectly good condos into one multi-story one!

But when he saw Sandburg's radiant, incandescent smile and witnessed the amazing transformation of Ellison's granite-jawed expression to one of unqualified joy, somehow Richard Mullenbeck felt a little better. And he was suddenly very glad that these two men were helping to keep the city of Cascade just a little safer, day after day.

###

"I can't believe it…I can't believe it!" Blair chattered frenziedly. His hands fluttered and gestured wildly. "He agreed! He went for it! I can't believe—"

"Calm down, Chief, take it easy." Jim piloted his effervescent partner toward the truck. "Yes, he agreed, and in my opinion he gave us a great deal on your half of our new apartment."

"But? I hear a 'but' in there."

"No you don't. Not at all. I'm just thinking that now the real work – the actual physical work – starts!"

"Oh man…are you sure you want to do the kit thing? It would take all of our spare time to build it, which we don't always have a lot of…and they're expensive, Jim; I looked – and a chunk of that rental money account is going to be taken up with the downpayment. But having a carpenter build one will be expensive too. And I'll need to get furniture and stuff too. I have some savings," Blair went on doubtfully, "and I guess I could cash in the 401(k)—"

"Good Lord, Sandburg, you are not going to cash in your retirement package at age 31! We will make this work without that, even if I have to ask Dad for a loan." Jim slid behind the steering wheel and stuck the key into the ignition.

"Man, you can't do that!"

Hearing the real anguish in Blair's voice Jim put the truck in neutral and turned to him. "Why not? I'd pay it back, and besides, the old man would never miss it if I didn't."

"Because…that's family money. And I'm not family, Jim, I'm just…the stray, remember? The …the tagalong." Blair fixed his gaze on the front windshield.

Ellison stared at his partner, utterly dumbfounded. "Who the hell have you been talking to? Or rather, who's been talking to you? Because I've got a few things to say to that person, and they aren't gonna be pretty!"

He waited, but Blair didn't respond. "Sandburg?"

Nothing; Blair steadfastly refused to meet his eyes.

"Someone at work?" No reply.

"Stephen?" Silence.

"My father? Your mother?" No response.

He could almost always tell when Blair was evading the truth, but this time he'd already been excited – and then upset, so respirations and heart rate weren't going to reveal anything. With iron control, Jim forced himself to calm down. Yelling at Blair wasn't going to serve any purpose at all. He'd find out later what was going on, but it could wait. One last try: "Hey, is this from a long time ago, back when you first moved in? I know people said things back then, but…" He'd never thought much about how comments like that might have stung and festered inside Sandburg for all these years. "C'mon, Chief, you know better than that."

Blair's eyes momentarily flicked sideways at the abrupt softening of Jim's tone, but he remained silent.

"You aren't a stray," Jim continued soothingly. "You never were and you sure aren't now. You're my roommate, my Guide, my partner, not a tagalong, the most intelligent person I know, a damned good detective and the man I'm proud and privileged to call my best friend. Two minutes ago you were on Cloud Nine. Let's stay up there, huh?"

Another quick glance from Blair, accompanied by a tentative smile and a whispered "Okay. Sorry."

"That's better. You're scarin' me with these mood swings, kid…makes me feel like I'm still married to Carolyn!"

Blair choked back a snort of laughter at that. Encouraged, Jim kept up the gentle persuasion. "Let's go home and look at those kits again, and get an idea of what we'll need. Then we can check for bids on something similar. Stephen knows every construction firm in Cascade. He found us an architect; I bet he can get us a carpenter too. And at a good price."

"Okay." It was still a whisper, but Blair managed another smile, slightly more genuine this time.

Relieved, Jim put the pickup back into gear and started for the loft. He'd stated the truth when he said Blair's mood swings were alarming him, but thinking about it, they kind of made sense. This was a huge leap for the formerly footloose anthropologist. Sure, he'd been living with Jim for five years, but always with the knowledge that he was merely renting, and _could_ leave if he really wanted to. He hadn't desired it, but still, the knowledge was there in the back of his mind. _Poor kid, the idea of owning his own home – or half a home, anyway – is probably a pretty daunting prospect. No pun intended._

"Jim…?"

"Hmmm?"

"Thanks for putting up with me. I'm sorry I'm such a basket case."

Ellison chuckled and reached to pat his partner's shoulder without taking his eyes from the road. "It's no worse than what you put up with from me sometimes. Don't agree with that too fast," he added, after a second, and was gratified to hear Blair laugh softly.

"Jim?"

"Yes?"

"This is really gonna happen, isn't it?"

"I'm pretty sure it is. You okay with that?"

"Yeah…but I get…scared, sometimes. Not frightened, but – overwhelmed." Sandburg sighed. "Somehow I never envisioned myself owning a house and settling down. It's great, and I do want it – but it's still scary."

"It's not exactly a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and 2.5 kids."

"Close enough," Blair murmured.

"Well, you probably never thought you'd be a police detective either, did you?"

"No – and that's still scary too, sometimes!"

"Chief, it's scary for me every day."

"Wait a minute – do you mean it's scary that you're a police detective, or scary that I'm one?"

Jim, being an smart man, just grinned and kept his attention on his driving.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Originally written in 2009. Don't expect today's technology.

N _ote: Although most of the stories by me follow each other in a story arc of sorts, this one and "Feline Persuasion" would only be taking place if "Remodel and Rebuild" had not happened. Alternate realities, if you wish._

 _Many thanks to Sarai and iloveagoodstory for their continued support with feedback, Follows and Favorites on these Sentinel tales. If it wasn't for them, the stories would be less than nothing._

 **A Single Flight of Stairs**

 **Part 3**

By EvergreenDreamweaver

They agreed to keep their plans quiet at the precinct for a couple of reasons. One, they wanted nothing to jinx the project, and somehow talking it over with Henri or Megan or Simon felt like it might do just that. Two, they enjoyed the unholy glee of sharing a secret that had absolutely _nothing_ to do with Jim's enhanced senses. It added a little spice to the day, and they enjoyed making their colleagues curious as to just _why_ Ellison and Sandburg kept exchanging laughing glances and odd comments – and why they were both in such all-fired good moods, after all the overtime hours, the baffling cases, and the vicious infighting of the previous couple of weeks. Simon, having been gone during that time period, didn't notice, but the others certainly did.

"What is up with Jimbo and Sandy?" Megan Connor might have thought she was whispering too quietly to be overheard, but Ellison caught two familiar names and immediately turned up his hearing. Eavesdropping might be rude, but when one hears oneself being talked about, it's almost obligatory. He was glad he was out of sight, across the hall in the break room. He could hear the soft conversation, but not see the detectives, and they couldn't see him.

"No idea," Rafe replied, very low. "They were ready to tear out each others' throats not all that long ago, and now they're all buddy-buddy again, like little kids with a secret. You don't suppose they…I don't know…became…lovers, or something, over the weekend, do you?"

Jim nearly choked trying to suppress any noise.

"Shhh! Lovers!? No, of course not!" Connor sighed sharply in disappointment. "They're being bloody annoying, whatever it is."

"Banks doesn't know either – and he always knows what they're up to. I know, 'cause I heard him ask Taggart."

Jim was biting his tongue hard to keep from exploding into guffaws at this choice bit of knowledge. Blair was going to _love_ this!

"Drat."

Hearing sounds of desk drawers being opened and shut, and computer keys being tapped, and deciding the conversation was over, Jim turned back into the break room and poured himself a cup of coffee, humming cheerfully. Where was Sandburg? This needed to be shared as soon as possible!

He recalled another 'accidentally' overheard chat he'd picked up on, right after Simon's return from sick leave. Joel Taggart had been in Banks' office, getting Simon caught up on what had been going on, that first morning back.

###

" _What's this?" There was the rustle of papers as Banks picked up something or other. "Media…you transferred_ _Sandburg_ _? I wondered why he wasn't around, but figured he might be actually working, for a change."_

 _Jim scowled at the remark. Blair pulled his weight and then some, and Banks was asking for trouble, making comments like that. Jim hoped he was merely trying to be funny, because if he really felt that way…_

" _Just for a few days, Simon; he'll be back. And why would you say that about Blair anyhow? He's one of the best we've got. Don't let Jim hear you. In fact,_ _I_ _don't want to hear it either."_

" _Hell, I was just joking. Sandburg's a good kid, just a little…out there, sometimes. But this transfer – Ellison didn't try to toss you out a window?"_

" _I admit, he wasn't all that happy about it at first, but he came around." Taggart sighed. "It got ugly for awhile, while you were gone. Something was going on with those two; they were at each other's throats. Jim was cutting Blair up, verbally – like he did that time Alex Barnes was in Cascade. Only this time Blair didn't just meekly back down every time; he issued his own brand of insults. Things did quiet down, and they seemed to be getting along butter, but I didn't want to take any chances; I sent him down to Media Relations to avert a potential departmental murder."_

 _Still listening, Jim flushed uncomfortably, recalling his and Blair's quarrels of the past few days. 'But we're okay now,' he assured himself._

" _What? Ellison and Sandburg? But...they're practically glued together! They don't usually fight with each other; it's always 'us two against the world'!"_

" _Well, it wasn't like that last week. They needed some time apart, Simon, at least during working hours. Now they're getting it. And it seems to be working."_

Jim hadn't shared Simon's and Joel's conversation with Blair. It had been too painful. But the whispered conference between Megan and Rafe was hilarious, and Sandburg would appreciate it. .

Somewhat sobered by his memory, Jim returned to the bullpen with his coffee. He calmly ignored Rafe and Connor and settled down at his desk to make some phone calls.

#####

As Jim had predicted, Stephen knew carpenters as well as architects. To their complete surprise, the first one they talked to was quite willing and able to build their staircase.

He did, however, raise a question they hadn't considered: did they have a building permit to do the renovations?

"Why didn't we think about that?" Blair lamented, pacing aimlessly about the loft. "Man, we work for the city; you'd think we'd be used to jumping through bureaucratic hoops, wouldn't you? This will put it back a month or more, I'll bet."

Jim stood at the balcony door, gazing out at the early spring evening but not really seeing it. He was seething with frustration over this unlooked-for snag, but was determined it wasn't going to derail their plans. There had to be a solution.

"Too bad we don't have a contact in the right department to pull some strings or put in a good word for us…cut through all the red tape…" Blair was muttering dolefully.

 _Cut through the red tape…someone to put in a good word…pull some strings…_ When he turned from the window, Jim's eyes were gleaming with satisfaction.

"Hang on, Chief, maybe we do."

"Huh? Who?"

Without replying, Jim moved to the coffee table and picked up the phone, where he consulted the list of stored numbers and then dialed.

"Jim! Who!?"

Grinning, Jim gestured for silence as he waited for the call to be picked up. Blair, bent on mayhem, started towards him, but Ellison held up a cautionary hand and began to speak: "Hi, Dad? It's Jim… Yeah, we are, but there's a problem we didn't think about… Building permit…yeah. Yeah, maybe a month or so. You wouldn't happen to know anyone in…you do? You would? Great! Oh yeah, that would be… tomorrow? Yeah, I can pick up the forms and stuff, and... Dad, thanks , this is really… I don't know how to… yeah, yeah… Okay, I'll tell him. Thanks, Dad, thanks again."

When Jim ended the call, he turned to his wide-eyed and open-mouthed roommate, grinning widely. "Hopefully, Chief, we will have the necessary permits in hand by tomorrow night. The day after, at the most. We will have to get the application in right away, of course. Dad said he'd hand-carry it to where it needs to go."

"WHAT?! You're kidding! Your dad – oh man, Jim, that's just incredible! That's so great of him!"

"The funny thing is," Jim went on, "was how happy he sounded. I mean, he really wanted to help, you know? That's what I can't believe."

"Sometimes," Blair murmured, "I think you underestimate your father."

###

Their carpenter, when told the good news, was both delighted and amazed at their 'good luck.' He repeated again and again that permits simply didn't get processed that quickly, and he'd never, in all his time in the carpentry profession, seen anyone get one so fast. However, one didn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Further, he announced that he had a few days free and could start right away; he felt sure that the project could be completed in three days or so, or at least completed enough to be usable. What was more amazing, his price quote actually fell within their budget.

"All right, I'm officially blown away by this!" Blair sank into the yellow easy chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Are you sure he included everything in that quote? Maybe he forgot something…like, I don't know, the stair treads? A railing around the top so no one falls in and breaks their neck? The cost of the materials? It's just too good to be true, man!"

Grinning, Jim ruffled his roommate's hair, ignoring the automatic yelp of protest this provoked. "I checked it against the kit lists, Chief. Everything was there."

"Do you know what this means? This means that I can actually buy some furniture – some pots and pans. Some food! And pay to have a phone installed. I'd figured on just using my cell, but it's nice having an answering machine."

"You know you can always keep using this phone and answering machine." Jim still smiled, but his eyes darkened with just a fractional bit of unhappiness, and Blair sat up with a bounce, sobering quickly.

"I know, but I still should…hell, this is going to be hard. It's going to tear me in two when it actually comes down to leaving, even if I'm just moving downstairs. It's your fault…wasn't this your idea to begin with?"

"Yes," Ellison admitted, "but the fact that it's going to be built in three days – starting tomorrow – makes it hit home pretty hard. I wasn't quite ready for things to change this fast!"

Blair frowned, evidently thinking hard. "Maybe it's a Sentinel thing," he said, and Jim groaned. "Oh, stop it. That's got to be part of it, Jim! That's why we're both so rattled about everything having to do with it. Instinctively you don't want me – your Guide – to leave, even though intellectually you know I'm just moving downstairs. And I feel the same way – I don't want to move further away from the protection of my Sentinel, even though I know intellectually that I'm not really leaving it at all."

"Too esoteric for me, Darwin. Remember, I'm just the throwback. You're the one with all the brains – ouch!" Ruefully, Jim rubbed his arm where Blair had slugged him. "Partner abuse," he grumbled.

"Then don't insult my best friend like that." Blair looked at his watch. "It's only seven o'clock and we have tomorrow off. Would you kill me if I suggested going shopping? Or maybe you'd rather I…I can go by myself, of course—"

Jim grinned and held up a hand to stop the rush of words. "Mr. Sandburg, I'd be pleased to go shopping with you this evening," he said formally, adding quickly, "I assume you mean furniture, and not stocking your kitchen cupboards with weird stuff that I won't let you have here?"

"Yeah…" Blair looked a little dreamy. "I need bedroom furniture and living room furniture, to start with. And…uh…Jim, how much of my stuff here do you want me to leave, since you paid for a lot of it?"

Jim's expression went from amused to frozen. "The stuff's yours, Sandburg," he muttered. "Take what you want or leave it, whatever." He immediately regretted his reaction when he saw Blair's face. Blair looked as if he'd been slapped for no reason. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Shit, Chief, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," his partner said quietly, but didn't meet Jim's eyes.

"No it's not. Hell, and I complained about your mood swings? Maybe you were right about that instinctive behavior thing." Jim moved in front of Blair's chair and extended his hand. "Come on, let's do this. You have furniture to buy. On your feet, partner."

Slowly, Blair took the extended hand and let Jim pull him to his feet. "And bedding," he said cautiously. "And…lamps."

"And lamps," Jim agreed, draping an arm across his shoulder.

"Goodwill," Sandburg proposed. "And secondhand stores. You can get all kinds of good stuff at Goodwill."

"Your penniless-college-student genes are kicking in again," Jim pointed out, "but in the case of some of the furniture, I think you may be right. Not for the bed, though – or at least, not for the mattress!"

###

"Jim, when are we going to tell the guys at work about this?" Blair laid a disassembled metal bed frame into Jim's truck bed, and the two detectives set about easing a double box spring and mattress set in as well. A large plastic bag containing sheets and blankets and pillows sat on the sidewalk, waiting to be loaded. "We can't keep it hidden forever, after all."

Ellison favored him with a sly smile. "How about when it's our turn to host poker?" he suggested.

"Which isn't until a month from now. Now that's just downright mean," Blair chided, then snickered. "I love it! I am so down with that. But your hidden nasty streak is showing, my friend."

"Hidden? Whatever made you think it was hidden? No," Jim denied, "If I was being mean, I wouldn't say anything; I'd just let an address change notice go through in the paperwork." He still vividly recalled Simon's cutting remarks regarding Blair, and even though Banks had _said_ it was a joke, Jim wasn't experiencing any warm-fuzzy feelings toward their captain at the moment. "And we don't have to wait a month. We can offer to trade poker nights with someone, and let them figure it out when they get there."

Blair shrugged. "Well, it's okay with me," he said. "I guess it's really no one's business but ours anyway, but I'm not looking forward to the ribbing we'll probably get." He tossed the bag of bed linens into the truck and climbed in. "Now, head for the nearest Goodwill," he directed, "and step on it!"

###

More shopping, followed by getting the mattress, box springs and bed frame unloaded and hauled to the second floor – and then to the elevated bedroom – took them until past ten o'clock. Getting it assembled took another 15 minutes. While Blair put the sheets and blankets on his new bed, Jim began to unpack the numerous bags containing smaller items they'd purchased.

"Got another shopping trip in mind tomorrow?" he asked, as Blair skittered down the steps to join him.

"Yes – but I just had a thought: what time is that carpenter guy coming in the morning?"

"He said he'd be here about eight." Jim looked at his watch. "Maybe we'd better call it a night, Chief."

"As soon as everything we got tonight is put away – well, put somewhere, anyway!" Blair surveyed his new domain with both pride and bafflement. "I'm going to be rearranging things for weeks, Jim!"

"And you haven't had so much fun in months," Ellison teased. "It'll be easier when the stairs are put in; we won't have to lug everything into the elevator or down the fire stairs."

"Some things probably won't fit down a spiral staircase, though."

"We'll manage."

###

The 'carpenter guy' Craig Keller was as good as his word; he was tapping on the door of #307 at five minutes before eight the next morning. Despite having been up late, both Jim and Blair were up, dressed and just finishing breakfast when Keller arrived. They offered Keller coffee, but he declined, displaying a large insulated mug.

"Thanks, got my own. I'll just get started, if that's all right with you." He grinned at the enthusiastic responses he got from both detectives, and set to work.

The best location for the stairwell opening, it had been concluded, was the corner behind the stove, tucked against the brickwork. This made it necessary for only one enclosure rail. They'd thought about having this made of metal piping, to coordinate with the brick-and-metal look of the loft, but eventually decided to have it all wooden, to match the hardwood flooring. Keller laid out his tools and began measuring and marking where to make the opening in the floor.

"Come on," Blair urged, "let's find something else to do…otherwise you'll go ballistic when he starts cutting that flooring. Come on, Jim." He tugged on Ellison's arm, pulling him towards the kitchen. "Let's get the dishes cleaned up and then scram, okay?"

"Sandburg, I will not go ballistic!" Jim contradicted…but couldn't avoid taking a wistful look at the corner. There was no way he could honestly deny that seeing a gaping hole sawed into his living room floor was going to create some…tension.

"There's still time to stop him," Blair said quietly. "And I won't say a thing if you decide you don't want to do this, man; I swear. It's your decision, and I'll stand by anything you decide."

That brought Jim up short. He had no doubt that Sandburg meant what he said – and he realized that there was no way he could do that to the younger man, cherished flooring or no cherished flooring. "No, Chief. This is right, and I know it." He squeezed Blair's shoulder hard. "But maybe we could…grab some stuff from your room and take it down to 207? We can clean up the dishes later."

Blair smiled shakily; to be honest, he had thought there was a good chance Jim might just veto the whole project, then and there. "That's a good idea. I've got some boxes of stuff already packed – papers and books and junk like that, that I knew you wouldn't miss seeing. We can take those down."

"And your bookcases," Ellison agreed, and headed for Blair's room. He avoided looking at the corner, where Craig Keller was snapping chalk lines on the floor to guide his saw.

###

When Keller actually started cutting, both Sentinel and Guide agreed that it might be a good time to do some more shopping. It wasn't just the emotional wrench of desecrating the loft; the shriek of the electric saw on hardwood set _Blair's_ teeth on edge; he could only imagine what it was doing to Jim! They informed Keller they'd be gone for a few hours and hastily decamped.

"Whew." Jim shook his head slightly as if to clear it. "Remind me I don't want to work in a sawmill, Chief."

Blair laughed. "I doubt that you'll get the chance, but I'll keep it in mind."

Today they were in search of living room and dining room items: a couch, an easy chair, a kitchen table and straight chairs, end tables, a coffee table. At Blair's urging they visited secondhand stores, unfinished furniture stores, and hit a midweek garage sale or two. They drove through Wonderburger to grab a quick lunch, and continued on. By the time they returned to their apartment the back of Jim's truck was loaded with things, some which certainly reflected Blair's taste rather than Jim's; some which showed just how much Ellison had influenced the younger man over the past few years.

When Blair unlocked #207 so they could deposit the first load they were startled to discover Craig Keller there. There was a neat opening in the ceiling, and the carpenter was busily assembling the long center pole which would support the whole structure. A tall ladder was set up so that he could move from floor to floor.

Keller greeted them cheerfully, chuckling at their amazement. "Told you it would be completely done in three days," he said. "Actually, I'll bet it's more like two."

"Will we bother you if we bring in some things?" Blair asked shyly. "We've got some furniture…"

"Won't bother me in the least. It's your place, Detective Sandburg, remember?"

Blair blinked. He still hadn't quite come to terms with that. "Uh. Yeah, okay. Thanks. Oh, and…just Blair's fine. C'mon, Jim."

Unloading furniture and other sundry items, hauling them upstairs and arranging them kept the two busy for much of the afternoon. Jim's teasing comments about Naomi re-arranging furniture when she visited gave Blair an idea, and he sat down for a few moments to call an acquaintance.

"My friend Missy's a _feng shui_ expert, Jim! Once I get everything in, I'll ask her to come over and check out the place. Then no matter what Mom's ideas happen to be, I've got the perfect reason not to change anything!"

Jim grinned. He considered that move an extremely wise one. He had no idea where Blair had come across a _feng shui_ expert, but Blair knew all kinds of people. He was just surprised it hadn't come up before, when Naomi had been at her height of interference. Maybe Sandburg hadn't been acquainted with this person then.

By the time Craig Keller called it a day the staircase was roughly assembled. The steps were secured to the support pole, which stood, straight and sturdy, rising up through the rectangular opening, with the steps curving sinuously around it.

"When can we use it?" Blair was hovering beside the structure, eyes wide.

"Probably by tomorrow night," Keller replied. "Only half the balusters and spindles are on yet, so there's nothing bracing the steps on the upper part. That and the handrail's for tomorrow." His eyes twinkled with amusement at Sandburg's awed reaction. "How do you like it so far?"

"It's beautiful. Don't you think so, Jim?"

Ellison nodded. He could honestly say that it was, indeed, beautiful, even in this unfinished state. "Looks great. I can't believe how quickly it's gone together."

"I'll plan on getting it finished tomorrow – at least, getting it all put together. Staining and varnishing might take another day. And then there's the carpeting, of course. See you in the morning." Taking down his ladder and leaving his tools and equipment stacked neatly in the corner beneath the staircase, Keller departed.

"Come on, Chief, it's been awhile since lunch. Let's find something for dinner," Jim encouraged. Blair reluctantly complied, following Jim out the front door of his… _his!_ …apartment and up the stairs to 307, where they set about concocting supper. Once they were seated at the table with filled plates, however, Blair grew pensive once more.

"This is going so fast, Jim. I keep thinking there's all this time, no rush, no hurry, we'll get around to it sometime…and then it hits me that that place downstairs is mine, and I'm going to be living there, instead of here, in your spare room, and…and…all of a sudden I get scared again," he confessed softly.

"Yeah, Chief – me too. But remember, there isn't any rush or hurry. And you aren't leaving…you're just moving downstairs. After tomorrow it's all going to be one place anyhow – just like now, only a heck of a lot larger." His forehead wrinkled slightly. "And more steps to climb."

Blair swallowed hard. "I – I know. I could even sleep down there tonight. The bed's all set up and everything. Most of my clothes are there. There are towels and stuff in the bathroom. Wh-what do you think I should do?" He suddenly sounded almost…lost.

"I think you should do whatever you'd like to. What feels right. Did you move your radio alarm clock?"

"No…not yet."

"Well, if you're going to sleep down there tonight, be sure to take it with you, because I am not going to go down and roust you out of bed in the morning when we have to get to work! When the staircase is done, maybe, but not when it requires trekking down the fire stairs and banging on your front door!"

Blair laughed. "I think I'll stay here tonight, in that case." He rose to take his plate to the kitchen sink, then turned back. "But I think I might take a shower down there tomorrow morning. We can actually shower at the same time now – that should save time, right?"

"Unless you spend all morning in there communing with the water heater, which is entirely possible," Jim retorted, and joined Blair in the kitchen so they could do the dishes.

To be concluded in Part 4...


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Originally written in 2009. Don't expect today's technology.

 _Note: Although most of the stories by me follow each other in a story arc of sorts, this one and "Feline Persuasion" would only be taking place if "Remodel and Rebuild" had not happened. Alternate realities, if you wish. You can stick with either one you like better._

 _Many thanks to Sarai and iloveagoodstory for the kind commentary._

 **A Single Flight of Stairs**

 **Part 4**

By EvergreenDreamweaver

Blair did sleep in his old bed that night, feeling slightly disoriented when he looked around the room. Most of the furniture – his desk, his bookshelves, the dresser – had been lugged down to 207. The futon was staying, as were some of the pictures and wall hangings, and Jim had mentioned he might move his desktop computer down from his bedroom. "We're both used to this being a study area now; might as well keep it that way, and I rarely use the computer upstairs anymore," he'd said. It almost felt the way it had when he'd first stayed with Jim, that memorable first week which had extended itself to over five years.

 _Tomorrow I'll be in my own place. And that's exciting and scary and so cool! And since it's connected to this place – really connected – I'm not leaving Jim alone and I won't be alone and everything's good._

 _And I'm scared outta my mind. What if we've gone through all this and we're still so intertwined in each others' lives that we start fighting again? What if Jim finds out that he can't stand not being able to shut out my noise and smells and…and…whatever? What if I still feel like I can't cook something I like that he doesn't, or have to tiptoe around my own apartment just so I won't disturb him?_

"Sandburg?" From the sound of it, Jim was evidently standing just outside the French doors.

Blair jumped, yanked abruptly from his increasingly frenzied thoughts. "Yeah?"

"Calm down; everything's going to be fine."

"Man, how'd you…?"

"Your heart rate's kicking into overdrive. Trust me, buddy; this is going to work. Now settle down and get some sleep."

"But…"

"Do I have to come in there, young man?" Jim's effort at stern-parent-mode might have been more effective if he hadn't been laughing so hard.

Feeling like an idiot, Blair laughed too. "No."

"Good. Go to sleep."

"Yes, Jim. Goodnight, Jim."

"'Night, pal."

And much to his surprise, Blair did indeed go right to sleep. The next thing he knew, his radio was blaring in his ear and Jim was hollering 'Sandburg, turn that damned thing off and get outta bed! We're gonna be late at this rate!"

As he customarily did, Blair crawled out of bed, grabbed his bathrobe and staggered in the direction of the bathroom, yawning. Dimly, he heard a chuckle from the vicinity of the kitchen, and Jim said "Hope you manage better when it's just you and your alarm clock, Chief."

"I managed to get to classes on time before I met you, you know!" Blair retorted. He stopped abruptly and turned towards the key basket beside the front door. "Didn't I say I was going to use my shower in my bathroom this morning?" He fished his set of keys from the basket and dropped them in the pocket of his robe. "I'll be back up in a few minutes," he mumbled and exited the apartment, heading down the stairs.

Less than 30 seconds later Jim heard through the open stairwell the door of 207 being unlocked, a few bangs of dresser drawers, and then the muted sound of a shower running. "Ah, they grow up and leave so fast," he said philosophically, and grinning, set about preparing breakfast. To his pleased surprise the noises coming from the apartment below were not in the least intrusive; they were just the usual 'Blair getting ready' sounds that he was used to, only at a much softer level.

When Blair bounced back into the loft, dressed, shaved and damp hair neatly pulled back, he was wearing an enormous grin.

"Jim, did you realize about the bathroom? I didn't notice it before – I mean, I guess I noticed, but I didn't think about it, you know? And if you noticed you didn't say anything—"

Ellison crossed his arms and waited, fixing Blair with a patient stare. "What was I supposed to notice about the bathroom?"

"The shower – it's preformed fiberglass."

"Yeah, so…?"

Blair flung up his arms in an exaggerated gesture of triumph. "NO GROUT!"

"…"

"…"

"!"

"Well jeez, Jim…it's not that funny!"

###

Craig Keller again arrived shortly after eight o'clock, just as the two detectives were clearing up the remains of breakfast and preparing to leave for work. He nodded agreeably when informed that they would be home for a few hours in the afternoon and then going on stakeout during the evening. "I should have it all put together by the time you get home," he assured them. "I know you'll want to use it, so I won't start putting stain on today, or tacking the carpet on the steps."

"That might have to wait for a day when we're going to be gone for a long time." Blair looked uneasily at Jim. They'd done some painting and refinishing in the past, and the fumes had nearly done in the Sentinel the first time. He'd learned coping mechanisms and they'd invented new and original ways of airing out the apartment, but it still tended to give him bad headaches if the odor was strong.

"That's fine," the carpenter assured them. "It can wait for a few days, so long as it's structurally sound. Nothing will be damaged by going up and down the stairs. See you this afternoon, detectives."

#####

When they got home around three, Keller was in the process of packing up most of his carpentry tools, and the stairs were solid and complete with all balusters, railings and spindles in place.

"They're ready to use," the carpenter assured them, "but there's still the finish work to be done on them."

"We'll be gone tonight and possibly tomorrow night, so we'll be catching some sleep during the day," Jim explained. "It doesn't look like it's going to be convenient to get the stain and varnish and carpeting on for a few days…maybe not until next week; we're working this Saturday."

"No problem. Like I said this morning, that can wait as long as you need to. I've got another couple of small jobs I can fill in with while I'm waiting to finish this one. Just call me when you figure you'll be out of the place most of the day, so you won't be bothered by all the fumes. It's not just stain and varnish; carpet glue stinks to high heaven too!"

Ellison grimaced and Sandburg looked worried. Neither of them was looking forward to this particular aspect of installing the new staircase. "We'll call you," Blair affirmed. "It may be the middle of next week."

The affable Mr. Keller assured them this would be satisfactory and departed, leaving the cans of stain and varnish, and a roll of carpeting which would be cut to fit the stair treads. The rest of his things – the ladder and his tools – he took away, as he would need them on other jobs.

As soon as the door was closed behind Keller, Blair was dashing for the stairs. Practically holding his breath in anticipation, he grasped the handrail and started down. Jim leaned on the railing at the top, watching his partner and smiling. When Blair reached his own apartment, he tilted his head back and gazed up at Jim.

"Well, whaddya think?" Jim inquired.

"It's…amazing! It's just not the same as coming in the front door at all! Oh Jim, it's so cool – try it!" Blair burst into delighted laughter. "In the words of the immortal Bob Barker…Jim Ellison, come on down!"

Chuckling, Jim did so, and found the experience was, indeed, amazing. One flight of steps – admittedly a long flight, as the apartments had high ceilings – and he was in Blair's domain, with the carpeting, the glass-beaded curtain and the uncharted territory of new living room and kitchen furniture, but with Blair's very familiar – and some not so familiar, since he'd unpacked boxes of things he'd had in storage – souvenirs and curios, photographs and books scattered about. If he went back up that one flight of steps, he would be in his own comfortable living room with his own furniture and hardwood flooring, walls and shelves adorned with pictures, curios, and knickknacks belonging to them both. Separate, yet very much together.

"Well. Well, well. Not bad, Chief. Pretty nice." He gazed around approvingly. "You're right, it does feel different, coming down the stairs instead of through the door." The gaze became assessing. "You do still need a TV, though."

"Yeah…guess that has to wait for the next paycheck. Or the one after that," Blair admitted. "I figured you'd let me come up and watch yours…right?" he wheedled.

"Well yeah, Chief." Jim controlled his laughter with an effort. Inside, another idea was hatching; maybe it was time to replace his television set with something a bit more upscale and larger, one of those wall-mount flat-screens, maybe, rather than sticking with that miserly little thing on the wheeled stand. He was going to do some rearranging anyhow, move some of the furniture around. If he did that, then Blair could bring the old set down here…it would do until he could buy himself a new one…

"Jim. Jim? You zoning on me?"

"Hmmm? No, not zoning; just thinking." Ellison shook off his preoccupation and looked searchingly at his long-time roommate…who had amazingly become his downstairs condo-neighbor as well. "You feeling good with this, then?"

"Oh yeah. It feels…just right." Blair laughed suddenly. "Listen to me talking like Goldilocks, wouldja? But yeah…we did it just exactly right, Jim; that's what my mind – and my heart – are both saying."

 _Just right_ …yeah, Blair had nailed it. This was going to work. "Yeah. Mine too."

#####

Blair changed his address with the post office and put a new label on the #207 box in the lobby of their apartment building. He ordered new checks. He sent in address-change forms to a couple of magazines he subscribed to, and a billing-address-change to his cell-phone provider, and opened new accounts with various utility companies. He and Jim decided to keep careful track of the heating bills for a few months, suspecting that some of _Blair's_ heat might waft up the stairs to warm _Jim's_ place, via the open stairwell. If that happened, Ellison insisted, there was going to be some adjustments made in who paid what on the heating bills.

Still, they didn't say anything to anyone at work. They hugged their secret close; still sharing those amused glances and cryptic remarks, enjoying the confused and frustrated comments occasionally overheard in the bullpen. They didn't change the telephone answering machine message, which stated that one had reached the residence of Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg. Blair hadn't – as yet – filed an address change at work. So far as anyone at the PD knew, things remained status quo.

Stephen knew, of course, as did William Ellison. Sally Wong, William's housekeeper, had stopped by twice already, bringing casseroles, salads and a pie, insisting that Jim and Blair wouldn't have time or energy to cook in addition to working and trying to get Blair moved at the same time. Knowing what a fantastic cook Sally was, the men accepted her offerings with enthusiasm and devoured them with delight.

The weekend was taken up with work and more shopping, more furniture-moving, more 'let's try it _this_ way…no, I like it better over there.' By Sunday night most of the major work of resettling was finished.

###

Jim, sitting cross-legged in front of the bookshelves and thoughtfully considering the rearrangement of books – for Blair had removed _some_ of his, but not all – glanced over his shoulder as Blair moved past, lugging a largish stack of towels, at least one blanket, and a colorful throw. "Are you sure all those are yours, Sandburg? I'm beginning to wonder just how much of my stuff is ending up in your apartment."

"What, you want me to produce sales slips or something?" Blair rested a hip on the back of the couch, steadying his load. "You prove to me that there's any chance that you bought purple-and-turquoise towels at any point in your life, Jim, and I'll consider putting them back. Until then they're mine, possession being nine points of the law."

"That's not a real legal defense, you know." Jim turned back to his book-arranging, conceding the argument. "If I run out of clean towels I'm raiding yours," he threatened mildly, no longer paying a great deal of attention to the conversation. He was trying to decide whether to arrange the books by size or alphabetically by author, and if he did it alphabetically, did that mean integrating paperbacks with hardbound, or making two separate sections…

He absently noted Sandburg's actions as the younger man hefted his armload of stuff and resumed his trek towards the new staircase. It was completely usable, despite the lack of stain, varnish and carpeting, and Blair had spent most of the evening going up and down as he moved items from 'their' apartment to 'his.' Jim, perforce, had been moving things too, as new vacant spaces appeared on shelves, tables and walls.

Jim had just pulled a handful of paperbacks out when he heard it: a subdued yelp, followed by thuds and a slithering noise which ended in a single, larger _THUMP_. He leaped to his feet, letting the books scatter, and hurried towards the spiral stairs. "You okay? Chief? You all right?"

Silence for a moment, then some muffled, pained gasps and an uncertain "Yeah. I'm fine."

Jim leaned over the new railing and peered down to see a dazed-looking Blair lying sprawled on the lowest steps on his back. "The same way you were 'fine' when you went through the floor on that construction site a few years back, right? Stay put a minute." He started down the stairs, stepping carefully over a couple of towels.

He'd learned over the years that Blair was likely to insist he was 'fine, man, just fine,' unless there was a copious amount of blood or obvious broken bones involved. Case in point: the incident Jim had just mentioned. Blair had asserted that he was unhurt after a fall – a considerable drop – through rotten floorboards; in truth he had been badly shaken up and bruised. When he stiffened up two days later, he could barely get out of bed, and had been laid up for more than a week.

Surprisingly, Blair obeyed the injunction and didn't move, but didn't change his tune either. "I'm okay, man. The blanket and towels sort of padded things."

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, Jim crouched down. "Where's it hurt?"

"Mostly my pride," Blair gritted. He pushed himself upright, but a less observant man than Jim would have seen the grimace of pain that flitted across the expressive face.

"Just hang on, there. Did you hit your head?"

"Nah…I'm not hurt, really, I'm fine. Just bruises." Blair surreptitiously tried to rub various sore spots without drawing his partner's attention.

"Look, pal, just because there aren't splintered bone ends sticking out doesn't mean something doesn't hurt. Bruised places hurt. You're allowed an 'ouch' or two." Jim carefully helped Blair to his feet, bracing him with an arm behind his back. "Why don't you sit down for a minute and catch your breath?"

"Maybe I will. Just for a minute." Blair let Jim support him to the sofa and gingerly seated himself. He watched Ellison pick up the scattered towels, blanket and throw, and fold them neatly. "You don't have to do that, man. I'll get 'em in a minute."

"I don't mind." Jim frowned. "What's gotten into you? You aren't usually so…" He thought for a moment. "So adamantly independent," he finished, pleased at having multi-syllable words to toss at his partner.

Blair flushed with embarrassment. "I just…get sick of being such a klutz," he mumbled. "I didn't see you falling down the stairs."

"Don't kid yourself; I felt dizzy, looking down, too. I think it's going to take a little while to get the hang of those spiral stairs. You probably aren't going to be the only one taking a tumble on them; you were just the first one. It'll be better when the carpeting's in, though; less chance of skidding." Jim grinned a little. "Besides, who says you're a klutz? How many times have you dropped your gun when you're in pursuit?"

"None that I can think of." Blair looked a little more cheerful. Jim's tendency to lose his gun was famous throughout Major Crimes, much to the big detective's chagrin.

"See? Everyone's got their own degree of klutziness." Jim carried the towels into the bathroom; spread the throw on the couch. "Feeling okay now?"

"Much better." Blair smiled and got to his feet. He moved cautiously, but without much discomfort. They headed towards the staircase, Blair in the lead.

"Why don't you think of something quiet to do for the rest of the evening, instead of running up and down the stairs?"

"Maybe you're right. You want some help arranging books?"

"That works. You can alphabetize and I'll put them on the shelves."

#####

Craig Keller came on Tuesday to finish the staircase. The two detectives expected a long day away from home, for they were scheduled for stakeout duty after the regular working day. They anticipated getting home sometime in the early hours of Wednesday morning – which surely ought to give the stain, varnish and carpet glue odors time to dissipate. Since they then had the rest of Wednesday off, hopefully they could catch up on their sleep before setting out for another stakeout shift that night. Keller assured them he would lock both apartments upon leaving, but would leave some of the uppermost windows cracked a bit to let some air in and smells out.

Blair was practically bouncing with excitement as they left for work at the thought of the remodeling finally being done. He'd been sleeping and showering in his own place, naturally, but he and Jim had breakfasted together – at _Blair's_ dining table – just as they always did. They had eaten supper together the night before…upstairs at Jim's. This casual trade-off in domesticity was working well so far; Blair was having fun playing with his new kitchen, and Jim was enjoying the extra refrigerator, cupboard and counter space.

They _both_ enjoyed having two separate water heaters and two bathrooms. There was no denying it made for much more peaceful coexistence.

"After today we'll have to tell the guys at the station," Blair said as they climbed into Jim's truck. "I can't really put off submitting an address change much longer, and then it will be general knowledge anyway. It would hurt everybody's feelings if they found out that way. Especially Simon's."

"Mm-hmm." Jim nodded, but didn't look happy about it.

"Hey, man – what is it with you and not mentioning it at work, anyway?" Blair persisted. "Or is it…wait a minute. Is there something going on with Simon I should know about?"

"Nothing's going on with Simon." _That you need to know about, anyway._

"Doesn't seem like we've seen much of him, aside from strictly professional reasons, since he came back," Blair mused.

"We've been busy – he probably has too. Lots of catching up to do."

Blair gazed out the side window. He wasn't totally satisfied with Jim's answers, but couldn't really pin down why. And it wasn't worth the effort of an all-out assault and interrogation. Returning to the original subject was easier. "Well, okay, but still…how should we do it?"

Ellison pondered the question briefly. "Make up some excuse that we need to switch poker hosting with someone," he suggested. "Isn't that what we'd talked about before?"

"And just let them come and casually mention it during the course of the evening?"

"I suspect seeing you come up the stairs to the poker table might give it away," Jim said dryly.

Blair chuckled at the image. "Yeah, suppose you're right. Hey…" The smile turned to a frown as he tried to think things through. "There isn't some special reason you don't want people to know, is there? Like…I don't know; you're ashamed of me living downstairs, sorta like having a crazy uncle locked in the attic, or something…"

Jim was so astounded by this that he instinctively jammed on the brakes and nearly fishtailed the truck into a parked car. All around them, horns blared reproach. "ASHAMED of you?" Carefully, he straightened the vehicle and merged back into traffic, muttering beneath his breath about idiot Guides whose superior intellects didn't make up for the fact that they had scrambled eggs for brains. He scowled as he puzzled out how best to put his reply to Blair's question into appropriate words. "I thought we'd managed to banish those inferiority-complex feelings by now. No, Guppy, I am not now, nor have I ever been, ashamed of you. If I was, would I have shared a place with you for five years, or pushed to have our apartments combined?"

"Not too likely," Blair conceded, looking happier.

"It's just been…fun, watching that whole bunch trying to figure out what we've been up to. They think they need to know everything about everything, personal or not, whether it's any of their business or not. We always have to be so careful with the senses stuff, keeping it under wraps. It was a kick to have something else to keep secret—"

"Something that wouldn't be dangerous to anyone or hurt anyone if it was found out, like the Sentinel stuff," Blair interrupted. "You're right, it was fun. But unless we're intending to keep it concealed forever – in which case it wouldn't be fun anymore – we're going to have to bite the bullet and confess."

"For such an educated guy, you're heavily into clichés this morning, aren't you?" Jim's eyes twinkled.

Blair's reply was terse, to the point, and not delivered verbally.

###

It was absurdly easy. All they did was mention that they were going to have some painting done (carefully not stating exactly _when_ this event was going to take place) and ask that their turn at hosting poker night be moved to the end of the current week instead of three weeks out. All the regular poker-night members of Major Crimes were agreeable to the change in schedule.

And when they arrived home at midnight, having spent six hours of complete and utter boredom in Jim's truck, 'watching paint dry and grass grow' as Blair termed their stakeout, they were met by the faint aroma of varnish, and an even fainter whiff of glue.

Out of habit Blair had accompanied Jim up to 307 and entered that way, rather than going to his own front door. He immediately headed for the spiral staircase. "Oh man…oh Jim, just look!"

Jim looked…and smiled. Sleek, glossy, satin-smooth, the enclosure railing gleamed in the soft light of the single lamp he'd turned on. "Looks really nice, doesn't it?" He ran an appreciative hand along the lustrous surface and leaned over. "Look at the stairs, Chief."

"I am…" Blair knelt down and patted the first step gently. "Ah, nothing like new carpeting! It's so soft – and clean."

Jim admired the soft brown cut-loop pile which now covered the top of each step. "It's great." He sniffed experimentally…and sneezed. "Uh-oh."

Blair looked up, alarmed. "Oh no…is it your allergies? I read that if you're prone to allergic reactions you should keep windows open for 72 hours after carpeting's installed—" He shivered. "Mr. Keller left the windows open, but…it's kinda cold, man!"

Jim had already considered this possibility and thought about a temporary solution. "Go on down to your apartment, Chief, and get to bed where you'll be warm," he commanded. "I'll throw a couple of sheets over the railing and the opening up here, just for tonight. It'll cut down on the fumes and carpet dust up here, and keep it warmer for you downstairs – if your windows are shut, anyway. Although now that I think about it, you'd better open some, or the patio door."

"I guess that would work," Blair agreed. "Maybe by tomorrow it'll be okay. And I'm not bothered much by the smell of glue and varnish anyway."

"If you wake up with a headache, you'll know why," Jim warned. "If it's not okay by Sentinel standards tomorrow, we'll stay out of here as much as possible, and keep the staircase covered until it is. Now go. Get some sleep." He gave Blair a gentle push, then went to get the sheets to drape over the stairwell opening. "Goodnight," he added, as Blair disappeared down the stairs. Then, shivering just a little himself, he went to prepare for bed, still stifling a sneeze or two, although now he wasn't sure if it was from carpet dust…or because he was cold!

#####

"See you guys tonight," Joel Taggart called, as Ellison and Sandburg were exiting the Major Crimes bullpen at the end of the day on Friday. "I'm bringing nachos."

"I'm bringing chips," Henri Brown said. "And onion dip."

"Chocolate bridge mix," Megan Connor put in. "You blokes aren't depriving this woman of her chocolate again! Oh, and some fruit."

"Okay, thanks." Jim waved acknowledgement, propelling Blair in front of him. When the younger man would have stopped and continued the conversation, Jim pushed a little more firmly. "Come on, we have things to do to get ready." Blair resisted; Jim shoved again. "Now, Sandburg."

"Yes, Masssster; of course, Masssster. I musssst get home and rrre-mark the decks of cards…and rrroast the centipedes…before our…guestssss…arrive!" Crouching over and hissing in a remarkably bad impersonation of Igor-the-Hunchback, Blair emitted a fiendish cackle of laughter and lurched into the elevator before their astonished colleagues could react to his remark.

Jim shook his head, rolled his eyes, and strode after his partner. He slapped the elevator doors open just before they closed completely, entered, and the last glimpse the Major Crimes detectives had of Sandburg and Ellison was the two men collapsed against the walls of the elevator, laughing their heads off.

Brown cupped his chin in his hands and leaned his elbows on his desk, gazing meditatively after the departed duo. "Those two are the weirdest cats I've ever known," he remarked.

"Couple of Wallys." That was Connor. "They've been acting barmy all week."

"Roast the centipedes? If anybody except Blair said that, I'd figure it was a joke. But…with him, who knows?" Joel looked a little nervous.

"Haven't seen Ellison laugh like that in…weeks," Henri noted. "Hairboy either."

"Blair'd better have been kidding about marking the cards; he already wins all the time anyway," Rafe complained. "Hey, maybe that's why he wins!"

"He wins, detective, because he's a better bluffer than the rest of you." Simon Banks stood in the doorway to his office. "I doubt that he needs to mark the cards." A slight frown puckered the captain's brow. Until recently it had often been Ellison and Sandburg's habit to drop in for a few words at the end of the day; now Simon couldn't recall the last time they had done so. Almost as if they were avoiding him. But surely he was imagining it, for what possible reason would they have for something like that?

 _Roast the centipedes?_ He decided to make it a point to be early to the poker session tonight.

###

"You're jittering."

"No I'm not."

"Actually, you're worse than jittering; you're fluttery."

"Fluttery?"

"Yep."

"Jim, this is important! Having the guys over, them seeing the new place…"

"I know, Chief. You're allowed to be fluttery." He wouldn't have admitted it, but Jim felt a little fluttery himself.

"I'm not fluttery."

"Mmm-hmm. That's what they all say."

"I'd admit to being a little jittery…but not flut—"

"Sandburg, if you're going to pace, go do it in your own living room."

Blair glared, then clomped down the spiral stairs, muttering darkly.

"When you come back up, bring that dip you made," Jim called after him. "The one you heat up in the microwave and serve with potato chips. It's a welcome alternative to Brown's store-bought onion dip!"

"Yes, Massah," came from below.

"Doofus."

Jim had just finished setting out coasters for drinks when he heard the elevator whine to a stop, and a familiar firm tread came down the corridor outside the front door – accompanied by an equally familiar whiff of cigars. _Simon's here – and he's early_.

The Sentinel moved to open the door, anticipating Banks' knock. He grinned at his boss's irritation. "Evening, Captain."

"You enjoy that, don't you?" Banks growled.

"Yes sir, very much. Come in?"

Banks entered, handing over a 6-pack of Heineken and one of Samuel Adams as his contribution to the party. Jim put the bottles into an ice-filled dishpan and tucked the flattened cardboard cartons into a cupboard. "Thanks, sir."

"Where's Sandburg? Still marking the decks of cards?"

 _Okay, here we go! Showtime!_ Jim raised his voice. "Chief? Simon's here!"

"Coming," came a disembodied voice from the direction of the living room – definitely Blair's voice, but sounding muffled and far away.

Simon turned, bewildered. He certainly hadn't seen Sandburg in the living room when he entered the apartment! To his utter confusion, he now beheld Blair seemingly rising out of the flooring – wearing oven mitts and bearing a ceramic dish.

"What…in…God's…name?" He sneaked a look at Ellison, whose expression could only be described as a satisfied smirk.

"Hey, Simon." Blair set the hot dish on the kitchen counter and removed the oven mitts.

"Sandburg!" The stentorian bark made the younger man jump – and caused his Sentinel protector to step closer and lay a reassuring hand on Blair's shoulder. Banks didn't even seem to notice. "Where the hell did you just…pop from!?"

"My apartment, Captain."

"Your…good God." Flummoxed – befuddled – confounded – stupefied – nonplussed. Take your pick. Jaw dropped in amazement, Simon Banks looked all of the above.

Watching his face, Jim Ellison felt his resentment finally begin to ease. Seeing the overweening captain totally at a loss made up a little for his denigrating remarks about Blair. The two incidents might be totally unrelated, but…well, no one ever intimated that Jim Ellison was anything but totally human, and being illogical is a human characteristic.

Simon was rallying. "So this is what you two have been up to, the past couple of weeks? My God, what did you do, anyway?"

Blair, still flushed and nervous, looked to Jim to answer.

"Blair's living in #207 now," Ellison said evenly, keeping his hand firmly in place on his partner's shoulder, "and we've connected the two apartments to make one large one."

"You got permission to do this? How?"

Blair laughed shortly. "Between the two of us we can be pretty persuasive, Captain."

"I guess so!" Banks muttered, still hardly believing it. "How long has it been…this way?"

"The stairs were built last week, but they weren't finished or carpeted until Tuesday," Jim replied. "We're still getting used to it. We trade off, for meals. Not just cooking them now but where we eat, too."

"Uh…would you…um, would you care to…see it?" Sandburg asked shyly, and Simon abruptly realized that he was being pretty rude, standing in Jim's kitchen and interrogating the partners as if they were suspected of some misdemeanor.

"I most certainly would, son," he said in a much gentler tone. "Lead the way."

Blair did so, moving to the living room and the staircase discreetly tucked in the corner. "We tried to make sure it didn't stick out like a sore thumb," he explained, indicating the enclosure rail.

Banks leaned on the railing and gazed downward. "Whoa," he muttered, retreating slightly. "That's a long drop."

"Careful, Captain; those stairs are a little tricky if you aren't used to them," Jim called a warning from the kitchen.

"I found that out the hard way," Sandburg confessed, starting down the steps, "but it doesn't take much time to get the hang of it. Jim, my hands were full, coming up, but I'll bring up the veggie tray on the next trip. You've got potato chips up here, don't you?"

"Yup."

When Simon and Blair returned to Jim's part of the double loft, both were carrying dishes of refreshments for the poker game, and Simon was full of compliments about Blair's new living quarters.

"I don't know how you managed to convince the building owner to let you pull something like this, but however you did it, it turned out great," he enthused.

"I have a feeling," Blair commented, "we're not going to get much card-playing done tonight. We're going to spend the whole evening doing conducted tours of the place!"

"Oh well," Ellison replied philosophically, "you didn't get the cards marked anyway, so the game might've been a bust."

Blair, who had never marked a card in his life, stared a moment, then burst into laughter, just as someone knocked on the door.

Jim went to answer the summons. It turned out to be Joel, and he was rapidly followed by Megan, then Rafe and Brown arrived together, coming directly from an early stakeout assignment. For a few minutes no one noticed anything different about the loft, for all were milling around, unpacking and setting out food, chatting – and then sharp-eyed Megan saw the stair railing.

"Hello then, what's this?" She went over to investigate. "Jimbo, Sandy, what's this?"

Jim felt Blair stiffen beside him. What was up with Sandburg, he wondered. He'd been so anxious to show his place off, but every time anyone noticed, he retreated into frozen silence. "We've had some remodeling done," he answered Connor's question.

She peered down the stairs. "Why in the world would you tunnel through to someone else's flat?"

Blair stirred, and cleared his throat. "Because…it's mine," he said softly.

Several pairs of eyes swiveled to Major Crimes' youngest detective. "Yours!" Connor gasped.

"Who else's?" Jim stepped forward, his hand firm and warm and comforting on Blair's back as he urged him out of the kitchen. "You don't think I'd cut holes in the living room floor for just anyone, do you? We've created a double apartment out of two singles, that's all."

"I didn't think you'd saw holes in your floor for anyone at all, even Hairboy," Brown marveled. Aside to Rafe he muttered, very low, "He wouldn't have done it for Carolyn, that's for sure."

"How long has it been like this?" "You didn't say anything!" "Who's idea was it?" "This is what you blokes have been sniggering about, isn't it?" "I TOLD you they were keeping secrets!" "Blair, can we see your new apartment?" A hubbub of voices filled the loft.

Ordinarily Blair wasn't shy, and enjoyed being the center of attention, but he was inexplicably finding this a little overwhelming. He involuntarily shrank back, colliding with Jim's solid chest.

"Easy, Chief; it's all right. They're just excited about it, and happy for you." The Sentinel breathed the reassuring words into his Guide's hair, barely audible even to Blair. "You okay?" Blair shook his head slightly, and Jim tightened his grip on his shoulders. "Deep breaths," he whispered, and was gratified to feel Blair comply.

"Sandy, can't we see it? Won't you show us?" Connor pleaded.

"S-sure you can see it." Sandburg managed a nearly-normal smile for his colleagues.

With a last encouraging squeeze, Jim released him. "Why don't you take everyone on a quick tour, and Simon and I will finish setting out the food, since he's already seen your place. Then we can get down to playing cards."

The detectives trooped off in Blair's wake, and yelps and giggles echoed from the staircase as they maneuvered around the tricky steps. Blair could be heard cautioning them to be careful, citing his own mishap. Listening, Ellison grinned. "It's a good thing they're doing this before they've had anything to drink," he commented to Simon. "You'd have a whole division in the hospital with broken bones!"

"That's all I need!" Banks harrumphed. "And it would be yours and Sandburg's fault, as usual."

Ellison's grin faded. "Captain, that's hardly…"

"Oh, hell, I apologize. That was a dumb thing to say. And completely wrong, as well as out of line." Banks hesitated a moment, then went on: "You and Sandburg are probably the best thing to happen to the Cascade PD in decades. You're a helluva cop…and so is he. I'm proud to have you both in my division, and I'm honored to call you friends. And…"

"I know, I know," Jim interrupted, "Don't tell him you said so."

"Wrong," Banks snapped. "You damn well better tell him I said so." His dark face heated with chagrin. "Some time I'll manage to actually say it to his face."

The Sentinel nodded, oddly touched. "I'll tell him. He'll appreciate it, sir. As do I."

Their conversation was cut short as Joel, Henri, Megan, and Rafe thundered back up the stairs, chattering excitedly about Blair's new digs. Blair himself followed more slowly, smiling at his friends' enthusiasm. The detectives settled around the poker table and Jim, sitting down last, began to shuffle the cards.

#####

Their guests filtered out around midnight, Henri complaining that Hairboy _must_ have marked those cards, because otherwise how come he won so much? Blair just grinned and said he needed all the money he could get, he still had to buy more furniture. Megan Connor kissed both Jim and Blair goodnight, proving she'd had way more to drink than she should. Rafe, who'd surprisingly come in second in winnings for the evening, was keeping a low profile, since he had to ride home with Brown, who had lost the most. Simon and Joel, who, being captains, usually felt compelled to at least _attempt_ to maintain a slight bit of dignity and decorum, departed arm-in-arm, singing duets from Broadway musicals.

"Whew." Jim closed the door after the last straggler and leaned against it, heaving a sigh of relief.

"I think they liked it." Blair was sprawled on the couch, head back and eyes closed. "But I feel like an ocean liner being launched – all they lacked was a couple bottles of champagne to bust over us to celebrate."

Ellison chuckled, moving to the kitchen to start cleaning up the usual monumental mess left after a Major Crimes poker night. "There isn't any food left to put away," he noted, half in wonder and half approval. "They ate everything, like a grasshopper invasion."

"'They' includes 'us,' so don't go feeling superior, man. Anyway, it makes cleaning up easier," Blair yawned, and struggled to his feet. "Let me take the dishes downstairs, Jim; my dishwasher's quieter than yours."

Jim's eyebrows elevated, but he was quick to accept the offer. "Thanks, Chief, I appreciate that."

As they worked in tandem like they so often had before, Jim considered revealing Simon's remarks – and decided against it for now. Those comments deserved more than a quick mention when they were both almost too sleepy to stay on their feet. He'd save it and tell Blair in the morning, over breakfast.

He also thought about two separate conversations which had taken place during the evening. The first had been with Megan Connor, who moved into his personal space ostensibly looking for a serving dish for her chocolate bridge mix. "Good on you, mate," she'd murmured. "I haven't seen Sandy – or you, for that matter – look so happy in months."

"Do we?" Jim had to think about that a moment. "I guess we do."

The second had happened when Joel Taggart cornered Jim in the kitchen. Taggart, who had witnessed the escalating tension, the inflammatory remarks, and had acted to defuse things at work. "Did this come out of…that situation a couple weeks ago?" he asked quietly.

Jim nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah."

"I'm glad you two did this. I think something like this was absolutely necessary, if you were going to salvage things."

"You're right. And we owe you, for doing what you did at the station," Jim admitted. "You had a lot to do with the…salvage operation."

"Always glad to help, Jim. You know that. You and Blair mean a lot to me."

###

"There…almost good as new." Sandburg gazed around Jim's apartment, looking for anything that still needed to be picked up, put away, discarded or washed.

"The problem now is going to be convincing that bunch that we aren't going to host every time." Jim gave the countertop one last swipe with a damp cloth.

"No way. Although I suppose a case could be made for us having it twice as often." Blair yawned again and moved slowly towards the living room, heading for the spiral stairs. "Man, I am so calling it a night. See you in the morning."

Jim snapped off the kitchen lights and followed him. "Chief—"

"Hmm?" Sandburg turned back with an inquiring – if sleepy – smile.

"I'm really glad it all worked out." Simple, awkward words, with a wealth of meaning packed into them.

"So am I."

"It got dicey for a little while…"

"But it's okay now," Blair finished for him, and moved to hug his partner tightly, a gesture that was returned with enthusiasm. "And it's going to stay okay. Amazing what a difference one little set of stairs can make, isn't it?"

The End


End file.
